A  MAN, 
HIS  MARK 


I 


W.C.MORROW 


GIFT  OF 
Mr.  A.    J.   Dickie 


A  Man  :   His  Mark 

SECOND  EDITION 


A  Manf  :'';"'"'r' 
His  Mark 


A  Romance 

By 

W.  C.  Morrow 

Author  of  "Bohemian  Paris    of  To-Day,"    "The 
Ape,  The  Idiot,  and  Other  People,"  etc. 


With  a  Frontispiece  by 

Elenore  Plaisted  Abbott 


Philadelphia    ffcf    London 

J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 

1900 


1 


V 


COPYRIGHT,  1899 

BY 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA,  U.  8.  A. 


A    MAN:    HIS    MARK 

*¥ 

CHAPTER    ONE 

/^\NE  forenoon,  in  the  winter  of  the 
great  storms  that  swept  the  Pacific 
States,  Adrian  Wilder,  a  tall,  slender, 
dark  young  man,  stood  in  front  of  his 
stone  hut  on  a  shoulder  of  Mt.  Shasta 
and  watched  the  assembling  of  the  ele 
mental  furies  to  do  their  savage  work  in 
the  mountains.  By  all  the  signs  that  he 
had  learned  he  knew  that  mighty  havoc 
was  to  be  done ;  but  he  did  not  foresee, 
nor  did  the  oldest  residents  of  that  wilder 
ness,  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  the 
most  memorable  winter  of  terrors  known 
to  the  white  man's  history  of  the  region. 
A  strong  sense  of  security  and  com 
fort  filled  him  as,  turning  from  the 
7 

M23546S 


.I.-A-MAN:   HIS   MARK 


gathering  tumult  about  him,  he  studied 
the  resistance  of  his  hut.  He,  with  Dr. 
Malbone's  help,  had  built  it  from  foun 
dation  to  roof,  using  the  almost  perfectly 
shaped  blocks  from  the  talus  of  the 
lofty  perpendicular  basalt  cliff  at  whose 
base  he  had  built  his  nest  that  summer. 
With  nice  discrimination  he  had  selected 
the  stones  from  the  great  heap  that 
stretched  far  down  from  one  end  of  the 
shelf  upon  which  he  had  built;  with 
mud  he  had  fitted  the  stones  to  form 
floor,  walls,  arched  roof,  and  chimney. 
\Vith  boards  and  a  window-sash  borne 
by  him  up  the  mountain  from  the  road 
in  the  canon  he  had  fashioned  a  win 
dow  and  doors.  By  the  same  means — 
for  the  shelf  was  inaccessible  to  a  wagon 
— he  had  brought  furniture,  books,  pro 
visions,  and  fuel. 

The  hut  was  strong  and  comfortable. 
8 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

Should  snow  fall  to  a  great  depth,  he 
could  easily  shovel  it  down  the  steep 
slope  of  the  canon.  Should  an  avalanche 
come, — that  made  him  wince.  Still,  he 
had  made  calculations  on  that  account. 
By  arching  the  roof  of  his  hut  he  had 
given  it  great  strength.  Better  than  that, 
should  an  avalanche  plunge  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  it  must  first  gather 
great  speed  and  momentum.  Stretch 
ing  back  mountainward  from  the  top  of 
the  cliff  was  a  considerable  space  nearly 
level ;  an  avalanche  descending  from  the 
higher  reaches  of  the  vast  mountain 
would  likely  stop  on  this  level  ground ; 
but  should  it  be  so  great  and  swift  as  to 
pass  over,  its  momentum  would  likely 
carry  it  safely  over  his  hut,  as  the  water 
of  a  swiftly  running  stream,  plunging 
over  a  ledge,  leaves  a  dry  space  between 
itself  and  the  wall. 

9 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

But  why  think  of  the  avalanche,  with 
its  crushing,  burying  snow,  and,  far 
worse,  its  formidable  bowlders  that  could 
annihilate  any  structure  made  by  men  ? 
It  were  better  to  think  of  the  comfort 
and  security  of  the  hut,  and  listen  to  the 
pleasant  music  of  the  little  stream  at  the 
base  of  the  cliff. 

Better  still  was  it  to  view  the  coming 
onslaught  of  the  elements ;  to  note  the 
marvellous  coherency  of  the  plan  by 
which  their  destruction  was  to  be 
wrought ;  to  observe  how  the  splendid 
forces  at  play  worked  in  intelligent  har 
mony  to  shape  a  malevolent  design.  To 
a  man  of  Wilder's  fine  sensibilities,  every 
fury  unleashed  in  the  gathering  tumult 
seemed  to  be  possessed  of  superhuman 
malignancy  of  purpose  and  capability  of 
execution.  The  furious  wind  that  came 
driving  down  the  canon  lying  far  below 


10 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

him  was  the  breath  of  the  approaching 
multitude  of  storm-demons.  The  giant 
trees  on  the  slopes  of  the  canon  seemed 
to  brace  themselves  against  the  impend 
ing  assault.  Behind  the  wind,  filling  all 
the  sky  with  a  gray  blanket  that  dark 
ened  away  to  the  source  of  the  wind, 
was  the  silent,  stealthy  snow-cloud,  wait 
ing  to  follow  up  and  bury  the  havoc  of 
the  wind,  and  finish  the  destruction  that 
the  wind  would  begin. 

From  contemplation  of  this  splendid 
spectacle  the  young  man's  thoughts 
turned  to  the  dangers  with  which  the 
storm  threatened  the  mountain  folk, 
most  of  whom  were  engaged  in  the 
lumber  traffic.  Would  any  of  these  be 
cut  off  from  their  homes  *?  The  rising 
rage  of  the  wind  indicated  the  closing 
of  all  the  roads  with  fallen  trees :  would 
that  bring  serious  hardships  to  any  *?  In 


ii 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

the  summer,  now  past,  the  environs  and 
flanks  of  Mt.  Shasta  had  sparkled  with 
the  life  and  gayety  of  hundreds  of  seek 
ers  for  health  and  pleasure, — the  wealthy 
thronging  a  few  fashionable  resorts,  the 
poorer  constrained  to  a  closer  touch  with 
nature  and  the  spirit  of  the  vast  white 
mountain  ;  but  they  now  were  gone,  and 
the  splendid  wilderness  was  left  to  the 
savage  elements  of  winter.  Had  any 
delayed  their  leaving  and  were  at  that 
moment  in  the  drag-net  of  the  storm  ? 

Above  all,  there  was  Wilder's  one 
close  friend  in  the  mountains,  Dr.  Mai- 
bone,  who,  like  Wilder,  had  left  the  tur 
moil  of  city  life  to  bury  himself  in  these 
wild  fastnesses.  They  had  known  each 
other  in  San  Francisco  years  before. 
For  five  years  the  scattered  people  of  the 
mountains  had  employed  the  services  of 
this  skilful  physician,  and  had  come  to 


12 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

trust  and  honor  him  in  the  touching  way 
that  simple  natures  trust  and  honor  a 
commanding  soul.  It  was  Dr.  Malbone 
who  had  so  wisely  assisted  in  the  build 
ing  of  the  stone  cabin  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliff.  It  was  he  who  had  explained  the 
principle  of  the  arch  to  the  younger 
man,  and  had  shown  him  how  to  bend 
and  place  the  supports  of  the  growing 
arch  until  the  keystones  were  fitted  in. 
It  was  he  who  had  explained  the  mysteries 
and  uses  of  ties  and  buttresses.  What 
would  Dr.  Malbone  do  in  the  storm  ? 
What  risks  would  he  run,  to  what  hard 
ships  be  exposed,  in  visiting  his  patients  ? 
Only  a  few  miles  separated  these  two 
friends,  but  with  such  a  storm  as  was 
hastening  forward  these  few  might  as 
well  be  thousands. 

Far  up  the   canon  Wilder  heard  the 
first  fierce  impact  of  the  storm,  for  the 
13 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

heavy  crash  of  a  falling  tree  sounded 
above  the  roaring  of  the  wind.  By 
walking  cautiously  out  to  the  extremity 
of  a  point  that  projected  from  the  shelf 
upon  which  his  cabin  stood,  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  see  the  snowy  domes  of 
Mt.  Shasta.  He  knew  that  the  storm 
sweeping  down  the  canon  was  but  a 
feeble  echo  of  the  mightier  tumult  on 
the  great  father  of  the  north.  In  the 
hope  that  he  might  see  something  of  this 
greater  battle,  he  now  made  his  way  to 
the  extremity  of  the  point,  the  wind  mak 
ing  his  footing  insecure  ;  but  only  broad 
slaty  clouds  were  visible  in  that  direc 
tion,  transmitting  the  deep  rumblings 
of  the  hurricane  that  raged  about  Mt. 
Shasta's  higher  slopes. 

It  was  while  standing  on  the  extremity 
of  the  point  that  the  young  man,  turn 
ing  his  glance  to  the  deep  canon  beneath 
14 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

him,  beheld  a  thing  that  filled  him  with 
alarm.  At  the  bottom  of  the  canon,  the 
Sacramento  River,  here  a  turbulent 
mountain  stream,  and  now  a  roaring 
torrent  from  the  earlier  rains  of  the 
season,  fumed  and  foamed  as  it  raced 
with  the  wind  down  the  canon,  hurrying 
on  its  way  to  its  placid  reaches  in  the 
plains  of  California.  The  crooked  road 
cut  into  the  hither  slope  above  the  high- 
water  level  of  the  river  was  not  the 
main  highway  running  north  and  south 
through  the  mountains ;  it  served  the 
needs  of  a  small  local  traffic  only. 

Wilder  felt  both  surprise  and  appre 
hension  to  observe  a  light  wagon  driven 
at  a  furious  pace  down  the  road,  flying 
before  the  storm.  The  incident  would 
have  been  serious  enough  had  the  wagon, 
the  two  horses,  and  the  man  and  woman 
in  the  wagon  belonged  to  the  moun- 
15 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

tains.  The  horses  were  of  fine  blood, 
and  were  unused  and  unsuited  to  the 
alarming  situation  in  which  they  now 
found  themselves ;  the  wagon  was  too 
elegant  and  fragile  for  the  mountains  in 
winter ;  and  even  at  the  distance  that 
separated  its  occupants  from  Wilder,  he 
could  see  that  they  were  filled  with  a 
terror  such  as  the  mountaineers  never 
know.  The  man  was  driving.  Instead 
of  proceeding  with  caution  and  keeping 
the  horses  perfectly  in  hand,  he  was  lash 
ing  them  with  the  whip.  A  man  used 
to  the  mountains  would  never  have  been 
guilty  of  that  folly. 

It  was  clear  that  they  were  heading 
down  the  canon  for  the  main  road,  still 
some  miles  away,  by  following  which  a 
little  further  they  would  arrive  at  a 
station  on  the  railway.  Pieces  of  lug 
gage  in  the  rear  end  of  the  wagon  indi- 

16 


A   MAN:    HIS   MARK 

cated  that  the  travellers  must  have  been 
spending  the  summer  or  autumn  in  the 
remoter  mountains,  where  some  beauti 
ful  lakes  offered  special  charms  to  lovers 
of  nature.  Obviously  their  departure 
had  been  delayed  until  the  approach  of 
the  present  storm  drove  them  hurriedly 
away,  to  be  overtaken  here  in  the  canon. 

The  roaring  of  the  wind,  the  surge  of 
the  torrential  river,  and,  worst  of  all,  the 
trees  that  were  now  crashing  down, 
might  have  bewildered  the  steadiest  head 
not  trained  to  the  winter  savagery  of  the 
wilderness.  A  single  tree  across  the 
road  ahead  might  have  meant  disaster. 
Except  for  the  little  stone  hut  of  Adrian 
Wilder,  placed  purposely  to  secure  as 
great  isolation  as  possible,  and  invisible 
from  the  road,  there  was  no  shelter  with 
in  miles  of  the  spot. 

Presently  the  catastrophe  came.     The 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

man,  evidently  seeing  just  ahead  a  tree 
that  was  swinging  to  its  fall,  shouted  to 
the  horses,  and  laid  on  the  whip  with 
added  vigor,  aiming  to  pass  before  the 
tree  should  fall.  The  horses,  wholly  be 
side  themselves  with  terror,  reared,  and 
then  plunged  forward ;  but  a  moment 
had  been  lost.  The  horses  and  wagon 
passed  under  the  falling  tree  just  in  time 
to  be  crushed  and  buried  under  it.  The 
thunder  of  the  fall  echoed  above  the 
roar  of  the  wind  and  the  crash  of  more 
distant  falling  trees.  Nothing  of  the 
four  living  things  that  had  passed  under 
the  trap  remained  to  Wilder's  view ; 
they  had  been  as  completely  blotted 
out  as  though  they  had  never  filled  a 
place  in  the  great  aching  world. 


18 


CHAPTER    TWO 

TjXDR  a  moment  the  young  man  gazed 
in  a  stupid  hope  that  the  impossible 
would  happen, — that  horses,  wagon,  man, 
and  woman  would  emerge  and  continue 
their  mad  flight  down  the  canon.  Then, 
so  completely  and  suddenly  had  all  this 
life  and  activity  teased,  he  wondered  if 
the  old  anguish  that  had  driven  him  to 
the  solitude  of  the  mountains  was  now 
tricking  an  abnormal  imagination  and 
weaving  phantasms  out  of  the  storm,  to 
torture  him  a  moment  with  breathless 
dread,  and  then  suppress  themselves  in 
the  seeming  of  a  tragic  death.  He  re 
membered  the  warnings  of  Dr.  Malbone, 
— he  must  close  his  mind  upon  the  past, 
must  find  in  the  present  only  the  light 
19 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

with  which  the  world  is  filled,  and  must 
aim  for  a  sane  and  useful  future. 

All  this  consumed  but  a  moment. 
At  once  there  burst  upon  him  the  awful 
reality  of  the  tragedy  that  had  worked 
itself  out  so  logically  before  him. 
Humanity  cried  aloud  within  him.  He 
sprang  toward  his  hut,  procured  an  axe, 
and  plunged  down  the  slope  of  the  talus, 
taking  no  heed  of  the  crude  but  surer 
trail  that  he  had  made  from  the  road  to 
his  hut.  He  slipped,  fell,  gathered  him 
self  up,  fell  again,  but  rapidly  neared  his 
goal. 

He  paused  when  he  had  reached  the 
prostrate  tree.  Through  the  branches 
his  peering  revealed  a  crushed,  still  heap. 
He  pushed  his  head  and  shoulders  with 
in  and  called.  There  was  no  response. 

He  was  at  the  rear  of  the  wagon,  and 
soon  saw  that  it  had  been  crushed  into 

20 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

an  indeterminate  mass  of  wood  and 
iron.  By  pushing  apart  the  more  yield 
ing  branches  he  brought  to  view  the 
up-turned  face  of  the  man,  whose  eyes, 
fixed  in  death,  stared  horribly  from  a 
head  curiously  and  grotesquely  unshaped 
by  the  crush  of  the  branches.  The 
young  man  drew  back.  He  gasped  for 
breath  ;  he  called  upon  his  self-command 
to  bear  him  up  in  this  strenuous  time. 
He  attacked  the  branches  with  his 
axe  and  cleared  them  away.  He  half 
wondered  that  the  eyes  of  the  dead  re 
mained  open  while  they  filled  with  par 
ticles  of  the  bark  riven  by  the  axe. 
Presently  the  body  came  within  reach. 
With  unspeakable  repulsion  the  young 
man  placed  his  hand  upon  the  stranger's 
chest.  There  was  no  sign  of  life.  In 
deed,  he  wondered  that  he  had  taken  any 
trouble  to  ascertain  what  he  already  knew. 


21 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

All  this  time  the  young  man's  dread 
and  terror,  heightened  by  a  sense  of  utter 
loneliness  in  the  presence  of  the  dead, 
had  driven  the  woman  from  his  mind. 
He  had  not  yet  seen  the  slightest  trace 
of  her.  Did  he  have  the  strength  to  be 
hold  a  woman  mangled  as  he  had  found 
the  man  *?  .  .  .  Still,  they  should  have 
decent  interment ;  that  was  his  duty  as 
a  man.  And  further,  it  was  necessary 
that  their  identity  be  ascertained,  in  order 
that  their  friends  might  be  informed. 

There  was  something  else.  Far  back 
in  the  mountains,  that  wilder  wilderness 
of  the  Trinity  range,  and  in  the  Siskiyou 
range,  beyond  them,  there  were  huge  gray 
wolves,  fierce  and  formidable.  Now 
and  then  a  daring  hunter  had  come  out 
of  those  mountains  with  the  skin  of  a 
great  gray  wolf.  There  were  old  stories 
in  the  mountains  that  when  the  snow 

22 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

had  been  deep  and  of  prolonged  dura 
tion,  the  gray  wolves  came  down  to  the 
tamer  reaches  inhabited  by  men,  driven 
thither  by  hunger,  for  the  game  upon 
which  they  subsisted  had  fled  before  the 
snow  to  find  herbage.  The  first  to  come 
out  had  been  deer ;  soon  after  them  had 
come  the  wolves.  As  the  deer  fell  be 
fore  the  rifles  of  the  settlers,  the  wolves 
had  been  driven  to  depredations  on  cattle 
and  horses.  There  were  ugly  tales,  too, 
of  men  attacked  by  them.  Out  of  all 
this  had  grown  the  legend  of  a  she-wolf 
that  bore  away  children  to  her  wolf- 
pack. 

After  the  wind  now  raging  in  the 
mountains  would  come  the  snow,  silent, 
deep,  and  implacable,  to  hide  the  work 
of  the  fallen  tree  below  the  hut ;  but 
would  it  hide  everything  so  well  that 
the  great  gray  wolves,  if  driven  by 
23 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

hunger  from  the  remoter  mountains, 
would  fail  to  find  what  hunger  required 
them  to  seek  ? 

Wilder  again  attacked  the  tree  with 
his  axe, — another  one  lay  dead  there,  and 
she  must  be  found  ;  and  there  was  heavy 
and  horrifying  work  ahead  before  the 
wind  should  cease  and  the  snow  begin 
to  fall.  At  first  the  young  man  re 
sumed  his  attack  with  the  furious  energy 
that  had  hitherto  sustained  his  effort ; 
but  wisdom  and  caution  came  now  to 
his  aid.  He  realized  his  feebleness  of 
mind,  spirit,  and  body.  He  had  devoted 
weeks  of  arduous  work  to  the  con 
struction  of  his  hut,  and  that  had  lent  a 
certain  strength  to  his  muscles  and  buoy 
ancy  to  his  soul.  Still,  he  was  hardly 
more  than  a  shadow  of  his  old  self,  be 
fore  his  life  had  been  wrecked  a  year  ago, 

and  he  had  come  into  the  mountains  to 
24 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

make  a  sturdy  fight  for  self-mastery,  for 
the  regeneration  of  whatever  shreds  of 
manhood  were  left  within  him,  and  for 
their  patching  and  binding  into  a  fabric 
that  should  take  its  place  in  the  ranks  of 
men  and  work  out  a  man's  destiny. 

He  went  about  his  task  with  greater 
deliberation.  He  forced  himself  to  re 
gard  with  calmness  the  distorted  dead 
face  upturned  toward  him.  He  worked 
with  that  slowness  which  makes  greater 
haste  in  achievement.  This  brought  a 
surer  judgment  and  an  economy  of 
effort  and  time.  He  cut  the  branches 
one  by  one  and  dragged  them  away. 

Soon  the  woman's  form  appeared.  In 
the  extreme  moment  of  the  catastrophe 
she  had  evidently  sprung  forward ;  this 
had  brought  her  body,  face  downward, 
between  the  horses ;  they,  in  being 
crushed  under  the  trunk  of  the  tree, 
25 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

fallen  across  them,  had  nevertheless 
given  her  a  certain  protection ;  the 
trunk,  in  breaking  the  backs  of  the 
horses,  had  missed  her  head.  As  for  the 
rest,  she  was  so  closely  wedged  between 
the  horses  that  it  would  be  difficult  to 
extricate  her. 

This,  however,  was  finally  accom 
plished  after  great  labor.  The  woman's 
face  and  clothing  were  blood-stained. 
So  much  worse  did  she  look  than  the 
man,  that  Wilder  had  a  new  struggle 
with  himself  to  command  courage  and 
strength  for  the  task.  He  dragged  her 
out  to  a  clear  place  in  the  road,  and 
made  the  same  perfunctory  examination 
as  in  the  case  of  the  man.  While  he 
was  doing  so  the  woman  moved  and 
gasped,  and  this  unexpected  indication 
of  life  was  the  greatest  shock  of  the 

tragedy. 

26 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

But  it  was  one  of  those  shocks  which 
bring  new  life  and  strength.  Whereas, 
before  he  had  been  facing,  without  dar 
ing  to  contemplate,  the  awful  duty  that 
he  owed  the  dead,  here  now  was  the 
most  precious  thing  that  the  world  then 
could  have  offered  him, — here  was  Life, 
human  life,  fleeting,  perhaps,  but  in 
finitely  precious. 

Wilder  knelt  beside  the  unconscious 
woman  and  with  eager  hands  loosened 
her  clothing.  He  ran  to  the  river, 
dipped  his  handkerchief  in  the  water, 
bathed  her  face,  and  removed  some  of 
the  blood  that  covered  it.  He  chafed 
her  hands  and  wrists,  anxiously  watch 
ing  for  the  slightest  change.  This  came 
rapidly  and  progressed  steadily.  Re 
moved  from  the  crushing  pressure  of  the 
horses,  her  chest  found  its  natural  ex 
pansion,  and  the  rhythm  of  deep,  slow 
27 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

breathing  was  established.  Wilder  had 
learned  numerous  elementary  things 
from  Dr.  Malbone ;  he  saw  that,  al 
though  the  sufferer  was  so  grievously 
hurt  as  to  be  unconscious,  life  was  yet 
strong  within  her. 

Time,  then,  was  the  precious  element 
here.  The  sufferer  must  be  taken  at 
once  to  the  hut,  and  Dr.  Malbone  sum 
moned.  As  for  the  dead  man,  there  was 
no  present  danger  on  his  account,  and 
the  living  demanded  first  attention. 

A  formidable  task  now  confronted  the 
young  man.  First,  he  had  to  bear  the 
unconscious  woman  up  the  steep  trail  to 
the  hut ;  then  he  should  have  to  go 
many  miles  afoot  to  summon  Dr.  Mal 
bone.  The  young  man  thought  nothing 
of  the  difficulties,  but  all  of  the  doing. 

He  was  about  to  assail  the  task  of 
getting  the  woman  upon  his  shoulder, 
28 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

when  it  occurred  to  him  that  her  injuries 
might  possibly  be  aggravated  by  his 
manner  of  carrying  her.  He  thereupon 
made  a  hasty  examination.  The  head 
was  bleeding.  The  face  bore  no  visible 
injuries.  The  bones  of  the  arms  were 
whole.  The  left  leg,  however,  was 
broken  above  the  knee.  What  the 
particular  cause  of  the  sufferer's  uncon 
sciousness  was  he  could  only  guess. 
Perhaps  it  was  merely  a  condition  of 
temporary  congestion,  produced  by  the 
fearful  pressure  to  which  she  had  been 
subjected  between  the  horses.  A  bleed 
ing  at  the  ears  and  nose  seemed  to  the 
young  man  a  bad  sign. 

Her  condition  having  been  thus  ap 
proximately  ascertained,  the  next  prob 
lem  was  to  bear  her  to  the  hut  in  a  way 
that  should  do  the  least  harm  to  her 

injuries.     The  first  necessary  thing  to  be 
29 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

done,  therefore,  was  to  prevent  any  mo 
bility  in  the  region  of  the  fracture.  To 
this  end  he  burrowed  again  into  the 
debris  and  brought  forth  some  boards 
that  had  served  as  the  bottom  of  the 
wagon.  Tearing  strips  from  the  wom 
an's  clothing,  he  bound  the  boards  to 
her  in  a  way  to  protect  her  from  harm 
in  moving  her. 

The  strain  upon  his  attentiveness 
sharpened  and  strengthened  him  in 
every  way.  He  formed  the  whole  plan 
of  his  bearing  her  to  the  hut,  making 
her  temporarily  comfortable,  summon 
ing  Dr.  Malbone,  and  attending  to  the 
details  of  nursing  her  back  to  health. 

To  lift  her  gently  upon  a  bowlder; 
to  bend  forward  and  adjust  her  upon  his 
back  with  infinite  care  ;  to  proceed  with 
her  up  the  laborious  ascent, — all  this  was 
skilfully  and  expeditiously  done. 
30 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

Serious  difficulties  began  soon  to  em 
barrass  him.  He  discovered  that  she  was 
above  the  average  height  and  weight  of 
women,  heavier  than  he,  although  he 
was  the  taller.  He  found  that  the 
numerous  abrupt  steps  in  the  trail  laid  a 
heavy  tax  upon  his  strength,  and  that 
some  steep  places  proved  slippery  under 
the  burden  that  he  bore.  In  addition, 
the  muscles  of  his  arms  strained  and 
cramped ;  and  long  before  he  had 
reached  the  shelf  upon  which  his  hut 
was  perched  he  fell  to  his  knees  a  num 
ber  of  times  from  exhaustion.  But  the 
end  came  at  last  when  he  staggered  into 
his  hut,  dragged  a  cover  from  his  bed  to 
the  floor,  and  gently  laid  his  burden 
upon  it. 


CHAPTER    THREE 

TOURING  all  this  time  the  fury  of 
the  storm  had  not  abated  in  the 
least.  That,  indeed,  had  been  one  of 
the  worst  obstacles  with  which  he  had 
contended  in  mounting  the  steep  to 
his  hut.  Immediately  upon  laying  his 
charge  on  the  floor  he  had  begun  to 
prepare  his  bed  for  the  guest,  but  weak 
ness  from  exhaustion  overcame  him. 
He  reeled ;  a  red  blindness  assailed  him  ; 
and,  in  spite  of  a  fierce  effort  to  maintain 
command  of  his  strength  and  faculties, 
he  found  himself  plunging  headlong 
upon  his  bed. 

A  moan  recalled  him  to  consciousness, 
and  it  was  not  until  later  that  he  realized 
the  distressing  length  of  time  that  he 
32 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

had  lain  unconscious.  He  remembered 
that  when  he  fell  he  was  very  warm 
from  the  exertion  of  ascending  the 
slope,  and  that  when  he  awoke  he  was 
excessively  cold.  Furthermore,  twilight 
had  come. 

Dismayed  over  the  loss  of  time,  he 
proceeded  at  once  to  make  his  charge 
comfortable.  He  prepared  his  bed  for 
her  and  placed  her  upon  it.  She  was 
still  unconscious,  but  he  saw  that  she 
was  rallying. 

He  suddenly  realized  that  it  was  now 
impossible  for  him  to  summon  Dr.  Mai- 
bone,  for  the  fury  of  the  storm  had  been 
steadily  increasing,  and  the  crash  of  fall 
ing  trees  still  sounded  above  the  roaring 
of  the  wind.  It  would  be  worse  than 
foolhardy  for  him  to  brave  the  storm 
and  the  darkness.  At  any  moment  she 
might  recover  consciousness  and  find  her- 

3  33 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

self  alone  and  suffering  in  this  strange 
place  ;  and  a  whole  night  and  day  would 
hardly  have  been  sufficient  for  him  to 
fetch  the  surgeon,  had  that  been  a 
physical  possibility.  So  the  young  man 
realized  that  he  alone,  with  no  training 
in  the  surgeon's  and  physician's  art, 
must  take  this  woman's  life  in  his  hands, 
and  for  a  long  time  to  come  be  her 
physician  and  nurse,  cook  and  house 
keeper,  mother  and  confidant,  father  and 
protector. 

That  realization  was  sufficiently  cruel 
and  taxing,  but  the  ordeal  that  now  con 
fronted  him  was  the  most  trying  of  all. 
He  had  not  yet  given  any  attention  to 
the  appearance  of  his  charge,  further 
than  to  ascertain  to  what  extent  she  was 
hurt.  When  he  now  lighted  a  candle 
and  held  it  to  her  face,  he  saw  that  she 
was  a  young  and  handsome  woman. 

34 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

He  noted  the  high-bred  patrician  face 
through  the  grime,  the  abundant  dark- 
brown  hair,  the  black  brows  but  slightly 
arched  and  nearly  meeting  between  the 
eyes,  the  fine  nose,  the  habitual,  half- 
hidden  curve  of  scorn  at  the  corners  of 
her  mouth,  and  the  firm,  strong,  elegantly 
moulded  chin. 

It  was  evident  that  the  man  and  the 
woman  were  father  and  daughter,  for 
the  resemblance  between  the  distorted 
dead  face  and  the  grimy  living  one  was 
strong ;  the  manifest  difference  in  ages 
finished  the  conclusion. 

Was  she  fatally  hurt  ?  What  if  she 
should  die?  What  effect  would  the 
knowledge  of  her  father's  death  have 
upon  her  ?  How  long  would  she  re 
main  helpless  on  the  couch,  held  by 
her  injuries ;  and  how  long,  after  her 
possible  recovery,  would  she  be  held  a 
35 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

prisoner  by  the  impassable  condition  of 
the  roads  *?  Would  she  be  cheerful  and 
brave  through  it  all  ? 

She  was  growing  more  and  more  rest 
less  ;  wise  haste  was  now  the  crowning 
necessity.  First  of  all,  she  must  have 
suitable  clothing,  and  it  must  be  provided 
before  he  made  his  bungling  efforts  to 
set  her  broken  bone.  How  could  he 
hope  to  perform  this  difficult  surgical 
feat  with  no  more  knowledge  of  its  re 
quirements  than  he  had  secured  while 
serving  a  few  times  as  Dr.  Malbone's 
untrained  assistant  in  the  mountains,  and 
with  the  most  inadequate  understanding 
of  the  use  of  such  splints,  bandages, 
needles,  and  ligatures  as  Dr.  Malbone 
had  given  him  for  his  use  upon  himself 
in  case  of  an  emergency,  and  with  an 
imperfect  knowledge  of  the  narcotics, 
stimulants,  febrifuges,  and  other  medi- 
36 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

cines  with  which  Dr.  Malbone  had  pro 
vided  him  *?  The  sufferer  had  youth  and 
superb  health ;  but  how  could  he  feel  the 
smallest  assurance  that,  in  the  event  he 
should  secure  a  knitting  of  the  fracture, 
crookedness  and  deformity  from  im 
proper  adjustment  would  not  result  ? 
But  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  try, 
and  to  bring  every  intelligent  force  of 
his  nature  to  the  task. 

He  hoped  that  she  would  not  regain 
consciousness  before  he  should  make 
another  trip  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy 
and  secure  her  luggage.  The  twilight 
was  deepening.  He  threw  logs  on  the 
smouldering  fire  in  the  chimney-place 
and  started  to  leave.  He  paused  a  mo 
ment  at  the  door  to  watch  his  patient. 
She  was  again  stirring  and  moaning. 

"  A  sedative  would  be  safer,"  he  re 
flected.  And  then,  when  he  had  poured 

37 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

it  with  great  difficulty  down  her  throat, 
he  wondered  if  he  had  given  her  too 
much,  and  if  it  would  have  a  bad  effect 
in  depressing  her  vitality  and  working 
against  her  rallying.  He  waited  until 
she  had  become  still  and  quiet,  and  then 
hastened  down  to  the  road. 

The  storm  had  been  gradually  chang 
ing  in  character.  He  had  expected  the 
snow  to  wait  until  the  wind  had  fallen, 
but  a  hurricane  was  still  blowing,  and 
snow  was  coming  down  in  long  gray 
slants.  Already  it  had  begun  to  whiten 
and  fill  crevices  into  which  the  wind  was 
driving  it.  It  would  have  been  better 
had  he  brought  a  lantern,  but  there  was 
no  time  for  that ;  and  the  wind  doubt 
less  would  have  made  its  use  impos 
sible. 

At  the  wreck  he  found  his  axe  and 
cleared  away  more  branches.  Only  a 
38 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

very  faint  suggestion  of  the  dead  white 
face  peering  up  at  him  came  through  the 
twilight ;  and  there  was  work  to  be  done 
in  that  quarter  to-morrow,  however  much 
snow  might  be  lodged  and  packed  in  the 
branches.  Soon  he  found  two  large  and 
heavy  travelling  bags,  one  larger  than  the 
other;  this,  he  reasoned,  must  be  the 
woman's ;  his  strength  to  carry  both  to 
the  hut  was  inadequate  now,  and  he 
needed  all  possible  steadiness  of  nerve 
for  the  task  ahead.  A  laborious  climb 
brought  him  back  to  the  hut  with  the 
bag  and  his  axe.  By  the  light  of  a 
candle  he  anxiously  read  the  name  on  a 
silver  tag  attached  to  the  handle  of  the 
bag.  It  was, — 

"  Laura  Andros,  San  Francisco." 
It  was  with  awe  and  reverence  that  he 
opened  the  bag  and  in  a  gingerly  fashion 
drew  forth  its  contents  and  carefully  laid 

39 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

them  aside.  He  had  already  noted  in  a 
vague  way  that  his  guest  was  a  woman 
of  wealth  and  elegance,  and  he  now  ob 
served  that,  although  the  articles  he  dis 
closed  were  intended  in  large  part  for 
vigorous  mountain  use,  an  unmistakable 
stamp  of  daintiness  and  refinement  was 
upon  them  all. 

Having  now  found  garments  in  which 
he  could  make  her  comfortable  after  his 
surgical  work  was  done,  he  proceeded 
with  the  stupendous  task  that  awaited 
him.  He  wondered  how  much  precious 
time  he  had  lost,  if  any,  through  sheer 
dread  of  his  duty.  But  whatever  the 
delay,  and  whatever  its  causes,  it  had 
been  useful  in  preparing  him  for  the  or 
deal.  Up  to  this  moment  an  unaccount 
able  and  distressing  trembling  of  all  his 
members  at  frequent  intervals  had 
alarmed  him,  but  strength  and  steadiness 
4o 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

came  with  his  nearer  approach  to  the 
task. 

Commanding  his  soul  to  meet  the 
need  of  the  hour,  he  went  sturdily  about 
his  work.  He  knew  how  desperately 
painful  were  operations  for  the  setting  of 
fractured  bones,  and  how  great  was  the 
skill  required  for  the  administering  of  an 
anaesthetic.  He  had  never  known  even 
a  skilled  surgeon  to  undertake  alone 
what  he  must  now  do  without  either 
skill  or  assistance.  It  would  not  be 
sufficient  should  he  do  his  best :  his 
best  must  be  perfectly  done. 

He  produced  his  store  of  splints, 
bandages,  stimulants,  and  anaesthetics, 
and  arranged  them  conveniently  to  hand, 
as  he  had  seen  Dr.  Malbone  do.  He 
examined  his  patient's  pulse  ;  it  was  too 
quick  and  weak  to  give  him  high  con 
fidence.  He  made  a  good  fire,  for  the 
41 


A  MAN:  HIS  MARK 

night  was  cold ;  and  he  called  heavily 
upon  his  store  of  candles  to  furnish  as 
much  light  as  possible. 

His  bed,  upon  which  she  lay,  was  a 
most  crude  and  inadequate  affair.  It 
was  of  his  own  construction,  and  had 
been  intended  to  serve  its  part  in  the  life 
of  severe  austerity  that  he  had  made  for 
himself  in  the  mountains.  It  was  made 
of  rough  boards  nailed  to  wooden  posts. 
To  serve  for  mattress,  fragrant  pine- 
needles  filled  it.  Upon  this  were  spread 
sheets  and  blankets.  The  pillow  also 
was  made  of  pine-needles.  Thus,  with 
out  springs,  the  bed  was  hard  and  unfit 
for  a  daintily  reared  woman  ;  more  so  be 
cause  of  the  illness  that  she  would  suffer 
and  the  great  length  of  time  that  she 
would  be  confined  to  the  bed ;  but  it 
was  the  best  he  had.  As  the  hut  was 

very  small  and  had  but  one  room,  this 
42 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

bed  had  been  fitted  snugly  into  a  corner. 
Wilder  moved  it  out,  that  he  might  be 
able  to  work  freely  on  both  sides  of  it. 
This  cramped  the  hut  all  the  more. 

The  examination  that  he  had  made 
in  the  road  was  for  the  purpose  of  dis 
covering  broken  bones.  There  he  had 
found  the  bone  of  the  left  thigh  broken 
at  some  undetermined  point  between  the 
knee  and  the  hip.  But  broken  bones 
are  not  all  the  hurts  that  one  may  re 
ceive  in  such  an  accident, — cuts  and  con 
tusions  might  prove  equally  dangerous 
if  overlooked. 

With  exquisite  care  he  prepared  her 
for  the  work  that  he  must  do.  As  she 
was  fully  dressed,  this  required  patience 
from  his  unskilled  hands.  Finally,  this 
part  of  the  task,  inexpressibly  hard  for 
a  man  of  his  delicacy  of  feeling,  was 
accomplished.  What  anguish  he  suf- 

43 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

fered  on  his  own  account  and  in 
foreseeing  her  confusion  and  possible 
resentment  upon  realizing  that  he,  an 
utter  stranger,  and  not  a  physician,  had 
done  all  this  for  her,  it  were  idle  to  set 
forth  here. 

To  his  great  relief  he  found  that  the 
bone  of  the  left  thigh  was,  so  far  as  he 
could  judge,  the  only  one  that  had  suf 
fered  fracture  ;  but  a  careful  inspection 
revealed  several  bruises  ;  and  at  last,  in 
searching  for  the  source  of  the  blood 
that  had  covered  her  face  when  he  drew 
her  from  the  debris,  he  found  a  cut  in 
her  crown.  His  first  work  must  be  there. 

Covering  her  comfortably,  he  washed 
the  blood  from  her  hair  and  face,  and, 
bearing  in  mind  the  pride  that  she  must 
have  cherished  for  her  glorious  hair,  he 
quickly  shaved  as  small  a  space  on  her 
crown  as  possible.  He  first  tried  ad- 

44 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

hesive  plaster  to  bring  the  edges  of  the 
cut  together ;  but  the  water  and  his 
handling  of  the  wound  started  the  hem 
orrhage  afresh,  and  this  compelled  him 
to  close  the  wound  with  ligatures. 

He  was  pleased  to  observe  that  the 
hemorrhage  was  stopped.  This  made 
him  so  well  satisfied  and  so  confident 
that  the  greater  magnitude  of  the  remain 
ing  work  appalled  him  less.  Indeed,  that 
had  begun  to  exercise  a  scientific  fasci 
nation  that  abnormally  sharpened  his 
wits  and  steadied  his  nerves.  It  was  this 
task  that  he  now  attacked. 

All  this  time  the  sufferer  had  lain  un 
conscious.  This  was  a  blessing,  unless 
the  state  had  been  induced  by  causes 
worse  than  consciousness  of  the  pain 
from  setting  the  bone.  There  was  time 
hereafter  to  consider  all  that.  The  one 
present  duty  was  to  proceed  with  the 

45 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

operation  without  another  moment's  de 
lay,  for  inflammation  had  already  set  in. 
While,  with  infinite  care,  he  was  fit 
ting,  as  best  he  could,  the  ends  of  the 
broken  bone,  he  was  startled  out  of  all 
self-command  by  a  scream  of  agony 
from  her,  half-strangled,  and  therefore 
made  all  the  more  terrifying,  by  the 
bandage  under  her  chin ;  and  she  was 
sitting  up,  staring  at  him.  Every  one 
of  the  young  man's  faculties  was  tempo 
rarily  paralyzed.  A  benumbing  cold 
ness  was  upon  him.  With  a  mighty 
effort  he  gathered  himself  up,  but  his 
breathing  was  difficult,  and  sweat 
streamed  down  his  face.  He  firmly  laid 
her  back  upon  the  pillow,  and  said, — 
4  *  Be  quiet ;  you  shall  not  be  hurt  again." 
She  was  singularly  docile,  although 
he  could  see  by  the  wildness  of  her  eyes 

and  a  fluttering  in  her  throat  that  some- 
46 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

thing  was  raging  within  her.  With  one 
hand  he  gently  pressed  her  eyelids  down, 
and  with  the  other  he  wetted  a  handker 
chief  from  a  bottle  of  chloroform  and 
held  it  just  clear  of  her  mouth  and  nos 
trils.  For  a  moment  she  rebelled  against 
the  stifling  vapor  and  tried  to  drag  his 
hand  away ;  but,  finding  him  determined, 
she  yielded,  and  soon  was  stupefied. 

The  work  must  be  rapid  now.  There 
was  no  time  to  wonder  if  she  had  com 
prehended  anything  or  seen  in  him  a 
stranger.  No  interruption  could  come 
from  her  now  ;  that  was  the  vital  thing ; 
but  the  anaesthetic  would  soon  lose  its 
force.  He  resumed  his  work,  taking 
great  care,  in  matching  the  injured  mem 
ber  with  the  sound  one,  to  avoid  crip 
pling  her  for  life.  He  then  adjusted  the 
splints,  keeping  the  member  straight. 
Finally,  he  secured  it  against  bending  at 

47 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

the  knee  by  adjusting  a  board  on  the 
under  side  of  the  leg  throughout  its 
entire  length.  He  finished  his  work  by 
binding  the  upper  part  of  her  body  to 
the  bed-frame,  to  prevent  her  rising. 
Then,  extinguishing  his  candles,  making 
her  as  comfortable  as  possible  on  the 
hard  bed,  and  putting  more  wood  on  the 
fire,  he  sat  down  to  watch.  Everything 
seemed  to  be  going  well. 

By  this  time  the  night  was  far  ad 
vanced.  The  wind  was  still  blowing 
a  terrific  gale.  An  aching,  irresistible 
weariness  stole  over  the  watcher.  He 
drew  his  chair  close  to  the  bed  and 
anxiously  observed  his  charge.  He 
examined  her  pulse ;  it  was  rising ;  her 
skin  was  hot  and  dry.  She  had  passed 
from  under  the  influence  of  the  anaes 
thetic,  and  was  now  sleeping  restlessly. 
He  waited  in  dread  for  her  awaking. 
48 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

T\/rUCH  thinking  and  planning  had 
to  be  done,  for  the  unexpected 
situation  in  which  the  young  man  found 
himself  was  complex  and  difficult.  It 
was  essential  that  his  patient  should  be 
as  tranquil  as  possible.  Knowledge  of 
her  father's  death  might  prove  disastrous. 
Hence  she  must  be  deceived,  and  yet 
deception  was  unspeakably  repugnant  to 
the  young  man's  nature.  But  now  it 
was  a  duty,  which  above  all  things  must 
be  done.  She  must  be  buoyed  with 
hope.  All  her  fortitude  would  be 
needed  to  bear  the  miserable  conditions 
of  her  imprisonment.  Meantime,  the 
young  man  would  post  notices  along 
the  road,  calling  for  help  from  the  first 
persons  passing. 

4  49 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

Already  the  road  was  wholly  impas 
sable,  and  it  would  grow  worse.  None 
of  the  friends  or  relatives  of  the  dead 
man  and  his  daughter  could  have  been 
informed  of  their,  leaving  the  lakes. 
The  natural  conclusion  from  their  ab 
sence  would  be  that  an  early  winter  of 
unusual  severity  had  compelled  them  to 
remain  until  spring.  The  people  in  the 
mountains  would  have  no  way  of  learn 
ing  that  the  two  had  failed  to  reach  the 
railway.  Thus  had  the  travellers  been 
completely  blotted  out  of  their  world. 
No  relief  parties  would  be  sent  out  to 
search  for  them.  Not  until  the  unlikely 
discovery  of  the  notices  that  Wilder 
would  post  could  there  be  the  slightest 
knowledge  of  the  tragedy. 

More  than  that,  the  road  upon  which 
Wilder's  hut  looked  down  was  only  one 
of  two  that  penetrated  the  wilderness  in 
50 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

that  direction.  In  the  summer  it  had  a 
small  travel,  but  by  reason  of  its  crook 
edness,  narrowness,  and  sharp  grades  it 
was  avoided  by  heavy  traffic.  It  would 
be  the  last  road  to  be  cleared.  Snow- 
shoes  were  practically  unknown  in  these 
mountains,  for  seasons  of  long  snow 
blockades  were  rare  ;  but  there  would  be 
no  occasion  for  snow-shoe  travel  over 
this  road.  The  only  prospect  for  the 
escape  of  Wilder  and  his  charge  was  on 
foot,  after  the  lapse  of  the  months  that 
would  be  required  for  her  recovery,  and 
after  the  snow  was  gone. 

Innumerable  domestic  perplexities 
presented  themselves  to  the  young 
man's  mind.  His  charge,  being  per 
fectly  helpless,  must  depend  entirely 
upon  him  for  her  every  want.  Would 
she  have  the  wisdom  and  goodness  to 
accept  the  situation  cheerfully,  or  would 
51 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

its  humiliation  and  hardships  gnaw  con 
stantly  at  her  strength  and  patience,  and 
delay  her  recovery  or  precipitate  her 
death  ?  How  could  she  possibly  ac 
cept  the  situation  philosophically  *?  She 
would  find  a  bitter  contrast  between  this 
life  and  the  one  of  luxury  and  indul 
gence  to  which  she  had  been  accus 
tomed.  Even  should  she  develop  the 
highest  order  of  fortitude,  the  rude  food, 
in  small  variety,  that  he  had  to  give  her, 
cooked  badly,  could  hardly  tempt  her 
appetite,  and  thus  build  up  her  strength. 
Then,  her  bed  was  a  wretched  affair,  and 
there  was  serious  danger  that  its  hardness 
alone,  without  regard  to  her  possible 
resignation  to  its  discomforts,  would 
produce  hurtful  physical  results.  If  only 
wise  and  helpful  Dr.  Malbone  could 
know  and  come  ! 

Let  the  days  bring  forth  what  they 
52 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

would,  Wilder  would  do  his  duty  as  he 
knew  it.  The  fire  crackled  cheerily  on  the 
hearth  and  filled  the  hut  with  its  warmth 
and  glow  and  peace.  The  walls  were 
tight  and  strong,  and  were  holding  firm 
against  the  storm.  The  agonizing  strain 
of  the  last  twelve  hours  was  over,  and  all 
strength  must  be  saved  for  the  future. 

In  the  flickering  firelight  the  young 
man  studied  the  face  of  his  charge  at 
.leisure,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  sin 
gularly  handsome  ;  but  there  seemed  to 
be  a  certain  hardness  in  her  face,  relaxed 
in  unconsciousness  though  it  was.  Per 
haps  it  was  only  because  there  stood  out 
before  his  memory  the  one  face  in  all 
the  world  that,  with  its  infinite  gentle 
ness  and  sweetness,  embodied  every 
grace  for  which  his  spirit  yearned.  It 
was  not  so  beautiful  and  brilliant  a  face 
as  this, — but  there  came  up  Dr.  Mal- 
53 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

bone's  warning,  uttered  over  and  over 
with  the  most  earnest  impressiveness : 

"  As  you  value  your  reason  and  life, 
as  you  value  the  possibilities  of  your 
happiness  and  your  usefulness  to  hu 
manity,  turn  your  face  from  the  past, 
and  with  all  the  courage  and  will  of  a 
man  confront  the  future.  Nature  is 
kind  to  all  of  her  children  who  love  her 
and  seek  her.  She  heaps  our  past  with 
wreckage,  only  to  train  and  prepare  us 
for  a  noble  future.  There  can  be  no 
peace  where  there  has  been  no  travail. 
There  would  be  no  strength  were  there 
no  weakness  in  need  of  its  help.  The 
man  who  fails  to  the  slightest  extent  in 
his  duties  to  humanity  and  himself  bur 
dens  his  life  to  that  extent.  Be  brave 
and  hopeful  and  helpful,  as  it  becomes  a 
man  to  be,  and  labor  incessantly  for  the 
best,  as  it  becomes  a  man  to  do." 

54 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

And  the  man  with  the  curiously 
twisted  face  peering  out  from  the  tree- 
branches,  what  had  been  the  aim  of  his 
life,  that  it  should  find  such  an  end? 
After  all,  was  there  any  taint  of  unman- 
liness  in  that  end  *?  Doubtless  even  now 
he  was  covered  deep  under  snow.  If 
he  should  be  left  there,  the  great  gray 
wolves  might  come  down  and  find  him. 
They  were  big  and  powerful,  and  men 
who  had  seen  them  hungry  told  fearful 
tales  of  their  daring  and  ferocity.  If 
the  snow  should  drive  them  down,  they 
would  find  the  dead  horses  under  the 
tree ;  and  after  that  there  would  be  but 
one  house  here  where  they  could  find 
human  beings. 

There  need  be  no  dread  of  them  ;  but 

suppose    that  some  night  there   should 

come  a   scratching  at  the   door  of  the 

hut, — that  would  mean  the  gaunt  she- 

55 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

wolf,  who  bore  away  children  to  the 
wolf-pack. 

She  would  beg  for  a  rind  of  bacon  to 
eat,  and  a  corner  on  the  hearth  to  sleep. 
She  would  bear  ugly  wounds  from  her 
struggles  with  men  and  beasts,  and  these 
would  have  to  be  dressed,  and  rents  in 
her  hide  stitched ;  and  if  there  were 
broken  bones,  they  must  be  set.  Would 
she  be  patient  under  the  torture,  or 
would  she  snap  and  howl  after  the  man 
ner  of  wolves'?  .  .  . 

Wilder  was  startled  to  full  conscious 
ness  by  a  moan.  He  bent  over  his 
patient  and  looked  into  her  open 
eyes.  She  gazed  up  at  him  vacantly. 
He  took  her  hand ;  it  was  hot.  He 
placed  a  hand  upon  her  forehead ; 
it  was  burning.  A  haggard  look  of 
pain  and  distress  sat  upon  her  face. 
An  eager  appeal  was  in  her  glance,  and 
56 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

her  lips  moved  feebly.  He  bent  his 
ear  to  them.  She  was  faintly  whisper 
ing— 

"  Water,  water !" 

His  heart  bounding  with  gladness,  he 
brought  cold  water.  With  difficulty  he 
restrained  her  eagerness,  lest  she  discover 
that  she  was  crippled  and  bound.  He 
covered  her  eyes  with  a  napkin,  for  he 
observed  that  her  glance  was  becoming 
strained  and  curious.  She  submitted 
quietly,  while  he  gave  her  the  water 
with  a  spoon.  After  that  she  sighed  in 
weariness  and  content,  but  her  deep  in 
spiration  was  checked  by  pain.  Her 
burning  skin  and  an  uneasiness  through 
out  her  entire  frame  warned  him  that 
she  had  a  fever.  He  gave  her  a  remedy 
for  that.  It  was  not  until  daylight  had 
come  that,  after  watching  her  for  hours 
as  she  lay  awake  and  seemingly  halt 
57 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

conscious,  he  observed  her  finally  drift 
into  sound  slumber. 

The  young  man  rose  and  found  him 
self  weak  and  dizzy  ;  but  after  he  had 
prepared  and  eaten  a  simple  breakfast  he 
felt  stronger.  Seemingly  by  a  miracle, 
he  had  gone  through  his  task  in  safety 
thus  far.  He  must  now  leave  his  patient 
for  a  while,  to  discharge  a  grim  duty 
that  awaited  him  in  the  road  below, — a 
duty  from  which  his  every  sensibility 
recoiled  with  unspeakable  repugnance. 
Lest  an  untoward  accident  should  hap 
pen  in  his  absence,  he  gave  his  patient  a 
stupefying  drug. 

He  dreaded  to  open  the  front  door  of 
his  hut.  When  he  did,  he  found  the 
thing  that  he  feared :  the  wind  had 
ceased  after  midnight,  and  the  snow  had 
been  falling  ever  since,  and  still  was  fall 
ing.  It  had  whitened  the  walls  of  the 
58 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

canon,  and,  before  the  wind  had  ceased, 
had  eddied  and  drifted  about  the  hut  in 
a  way  that  filled  the  young  man  with 
alarm  for  the  future.  Would  his  strength 
be  sufficient  to  fight  it  if  the  storm  should 
be  greatly  prolonged,  to  the  end  that  he 
and  his  charge  should  not  be  buried 
alive *? 

He  put  this  dread  away,  and  with  a 
heavy  heart  followed  the  steep  trail  down 
to  the  road. 


59 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

was  near  at  hand  when  the 
guest  of  the  hut  waked  to  full 
consciousness.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  cry  out  with  the  pain  that  tortured 
her ;  but  her  strong  will  assumed  com 
mand,  and  she  looked  inquiringly  into 
the  anxious  face  beside  her  Obviously 
she  realized  that  a  catastrophe  had  over 
taken  her,  and  she  was  now  silently  de 
manding  an  explanation. 

Wilder  had  not  expected  this.  Her 
calmness,  and,  more  than  that,  her  silent 
demand,  were  so  different  from  the 
childish  and  unreasonable  petulance  that 
he  had  expected,  that  he  was  unprepared 
and  confused. 

"You    have    been    hurt,"    he    stam- 
60 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

mered ;  "  and  it  will  be  necessary  for 
you  to  keep  very  quiet  for  a  time." 

"  How  was  I  hurt  ¥'  she  faintly  asked. 

"  The  horses  were  frightened  by  the 
storm  and  ran  away." 

"  Oh,  the  storm !  I  remember." 
Then  she  looked  quickly  and  anxiously 
about.  "  My  father,"  she  said, — "  where 
is  he?" 

For  a  moment  the  oddly  distorted 
face  in  the  branches  came  grimacing 
between  Wilder  and  his  duty,  but  with 
a  gasp  and  a  repelling  gesture  he  drove 
it  away, — not  so  dexterously  but  that 
his  struggle  was  seen. 

"  He — has  gone  to  bring  help,"  he 
said.  Then,  quickly  leaving  the  bed 
side  to  conceal  his  weakness  and  the 
t  shame  of  the  lie  that  choked  him,  he 
added  hastily,  "  Yes,  he  was  not  hurt ; 
and  when  he  and  I  had  brought  you  to 

61 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

this  hut  he  went  to  find  help.  He  will 
return  as  soon  as  possible."  He  felt  that 
her  glance  was  upon  him  with  merciless 
steadiness.  "  Now,"  said  he,  returning 
to  the  couch,  "  I  will  remove  these 
bandages," — referring  to  the  cords  that 
bound  her  to  the  bed  ; — "  but  you  must 
promise  me  not  to  move  except  under 
my  direction.  Do  you  *?" 

She  slightly  nodded  an  assent,  and  he 
unbound  her. 

"  Come,"  he  added,  "  you  must  have 
some  of  this  broth.  No,  don't  try  to 
rise;  I  will  feed  you  from  this  spoon. 
It  is  not  too  hot,  is  it *?  That  is  good. 
Presently  you  will  feel  much  better. 
You  are  not  in  much  pain  now,  are 
you  ?" 

"  I   am   not  a  child,"  she  answered, 
with  a  slight  touch  of  disdain  and  re 
proof.     But  he  cheerily  said, — 
62 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

"  Excellent,  excellent !  That  is  the 
way  to  feel !" 

She  lay  silent  for  a  while,  looking  up 
at  the  roof.  Presently  she  said, — 

" 1  imagine  that  I  am  badly  hurt. 
Please  tell  me  how  and  where  I  am 
injured." 

"  Well,  your  left  leg  was  hurt,  and 
we  shall  have  to  keep  it  bandaged  and 
your  knee  from  bending.  And  there 
were  some  bruises  on  your  side,  and  an 
injury  to  the  scalp." 

"  My  scalp  ?"  she  quickly  asked, 
raising  her  hand  and  asking,  "  Surely 
you  did  not  shave  my  head  ?" 

"  No,"  he  replied,  smiling  amusedly  ; 
"  except  a  small  spot,  and  you  can  cover 
that  until  the  hair  grows  out." 

She  was  not  fully  satisfied  until  she 
had  felt  the  splendid  wealth  of  hair  that 
lay  massed  upon  the  pillow. 
63 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

"May  I  ask  who  you  are?"  This 
was  the  question  that  he  had  dreaded 
most  of  all ;  but  before  he  could  stam 
mer  out  the  truth  a  light  broke  over  her 
face,  and  she  astounded  him  with  this 
exclamation : 

"  Oh,  you  are  the  famous  Dr.  Mai- 
bone  !  This  is  extraordinary !  I  am 
very,  very  fortunate." 

Wilder  had  never  conceived  a  lie  so 
dazzling  and  happy  as  this  mistake. 
Between  wonder  at  his  stupidity  for  not 
having  thought  of  it,  and  a  great  delight 
that  she  had  so  naturally  erred,  he  was 
too  bewildered  either  to  affirm  or  deny. 
He  only  realized  that  she  had  unwit 
tingly  solved  the  most  difficult  of  his 
present  problems.  Had  she  been  look 
ing  at  him,  she  might  have  wondered  at 
the  strange  expression  that  lighted  up 
his  face,  and  particularly  the  crimson 
64 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

temporarily  displacing  the  death-like 
pallor  that  she  had  observed. 

"  Yes,"  she  resumed,  after  a  pause,  "  I 
am  fortunate ;  for  I  suppose  that  my 
injuries  are  a  great  deal  worse  than  you 
have  given  me  to  believe,  and  that  such 
skill  as  yours  is  needed."  She  turned 
her  glance  again  full  upon  him ;  but  he 
had  recovered  his  address,  and  now  met 
her  look  with  an  approach  to  steadiness. 
"  But,"  she  said,  "  you  are  a  much 
younger  man  than  I  had  expected  to 
see ;  and  you  don't  look  so  crabbed  as  I 
might  have  inferred  you  were  from  the 
message  you  sent  me  a  month  ago." 

She  paused,  evidently  expecting  him 
to  make  some  explanation ;  but  he  was 
silent,  and  looked  so  distressed  that  she 
smiled. 

"  You  may  remember,"  she  continued, 
"  that  a  young  lady  at  the  lakes  sent  for 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

you  to  treat  her  for  bruises  sustained  in 
a  fall,  and  that  you  told  her  messenger 
to  give  her  your  compliments  and  say  that 
cold-water  applications,  an  old  woman, 
and  God  would  do  as  well  with  such  a 
case  as  you.  I  am  that  young  lady." 

Wilder  liked  the  young  woman's 
blunt  and  forthright  manner,  although 
it  was  novel  and  embarrassing. 

"  There  were  doubtless  important  cases 
demanding  attention,"  he  explained. 

"  No  doubt,"  she  agreed. 

"  And,  after  all,"  he  suggested,  "  didn't 
you  follow  the  advice  and  get  good  re 
sults4?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  again  smiling 
faintly;  "that  is  true."  She  closed 
her  eyes.  Presently  she  extended  her 
hand,  which  Wilder  took.  She  looked 
earnestly  into  his  face,  and  asked,  "  It 
will  be  a  long  siege  with  me,  will  it  not  ?" 

66 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  Much  depends  upon  your  tempera 
ment,"  he  answered.  "  If " 

"  That  is  evasion,"  she  interrupted. 
"  Be  candid  with  me."  There  was  no 
demand  in  this  request ;  it  was  an  ap 
peal  from  such  depths  of  her  as  she 
knew,  and  it  touched  him. 

"Yes,"  he  stammered,  "unless " 

"  The  bone  is  broken,  isn't  it  ?" 
"  Yes ;  but  you  are  young  and  your 
health     is     superb.       That     is     every 
thing." 

A  despairing  look  grayed  her  face, 
which  then  quickly  reddened  with  anger 
and  rebellion.  Her  host  said  nothing. 
He  saw  that  she  was  competent  to  make 
the  fight  with  herself  without  his  aid  ; 
that  her  mind,  though  now  disturbed  by 
her  suffering,  was  able  to  comprehend 
much  that  her  condition  meant,  being 
obviously  an  uncommonly  strong,  clear 
67 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

mind,  and  that  it  would  give  to  an  ac 
ceptance  of  her  position  the  philosophic 
view  that  was  so  much  needed.  He 
saw  the  hard,  brave  fight  that  she  was 
making,  and  he  had  no  fear  for  the  out 
come.  Gradually  he  saw  the  contem 
plative  expression  of  the  eyes  turned 
within,  and  the  face  grow  gaunt  and 
haggard  under  the  strain.  As  slowly  he 
saw  her  emerge  from  the  depths  into 
which  he  had  thrust  her,  and  from  the 
very  slowness  of  the  victory,  he  knew 
that  she  had  won.  When  again  she 
looked  into  his  face,  he  knew  that  her 
soul  had  been  tried  as  it  never  had  been 
before,  and  that  she  was  stronger  and 
better  for  it.  And  he  knew  that  there 
was  yet  another  trial  awaiting  her  which 
perhaps  she  could  not  have  borne  had 
not  she  passed  through  this  one. 

"Another thing,"  she  said,  as  earnestly 

68 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

as  before ;  "  when  do  you  expect  my 
father  to  return?" 

"  Very  soon — as  soon  as  he " 

"Evasion  again,"  she  protested,  a 
slight  frown  of  impatience  darkening 
her  face  ;  but  it  instantly  disappeared, 
and  her  manner  was  appealing  again. 
"  Be  my  friend  as  well  as  my  physician, 
Dr.  Malbone.  Please  tell  me  the  truth. 
I  can  bear  it  now." 

The  young  man  bowed  his  head  in 
dejection. 

"  Snow  is  still  falling,"  he  said,  "  and 
doubtless  many  trees  are  across  the  road. 
We  can  only  wait  and  hope." 

A  transient  look  of  gratitude  for  his 
seeming  candor  softened  her  hard  beauty, 
and  she  withdrew  her  hand  and  her 
glance.  Then  he  knew  that  another 
mighty  struggle  was  taking  place  within 

her.     He  knew  from  the  deep  crimson 
69 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

that  suffused  her  face  how  fully  she  re 
alized  all  that  he  must  be  to  her  during 
the  weary  weeks  to  come.  He  saw  the 
outward  evidences  of  the  unthinkable 
revulsion  that  filled  her,  with  him  as  its 
cause.  He  knew  that  in  agony  of  soul 
she  rebelled  against  the  fate  that  had 
placed  her  helpless  in  the  hands  of  a 
stranger,  and  that  stranger  a  man,  and 
that  man  the  one  now  serving  her,  how 
ever  willingly,  however  faithfully,  with 
whatever  tact  and  delicacy.  He  saw, 
from  her  hopless  glance  about  the  cabin, 
the  bitterness  of  the  fight  that  she  was 
making  to  accept  its  repellent  hospi 
tality.  And,  worst  of  all,  he  saw,  or 
thought  he  saw,  that  in  the  victory  that 
she  finally  won  there  was  more  of  an 
iron  determination  to  endure  than  of  a 
simple  resignation  to  accept. 

So  these  two  began  their  strange  life 
70 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

together.  As  may  be  supposed,  it  was 
wholly  devoid  of  true  companionship, 
and  necessarily  so.  That  made  it  the 
harder,  in  a  way,  for  both.  From  the 
severe  furnishings  of  his  larder  the  host 
did  his  best  to  provide  for  her  comfort. 
She  never  complained  of  the  coarse,  in 
adequate  food,  all  of  which  had  to  be 
of  a  kind  that  could  bear  keeping  for 
months,  and  none  of  which  was  pleas 
ing  to  a  fastidious  taste  made  all  the 
more  delicate  by  illness  and  prostration 
from  her  injuries.  All  of  the  countless 
attentions  that  her  helplessness  imposed 
upon  him  he  gave  with  the  business-like 
directness  of  a  physician  and  nurse,  and 
this  was  obviously  gratifying  to  her.  She 
never  complained  of  the  cruel  hardness 
of  the  bed,  and  never  failed  to  express  her 
gratitude  for  the  slight  shiftings  of  posi 
tion  that  he  deemed  it  safe  to  give  her. 

7i 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

Most  cheering  to  the  host  was  the 
fair  progress  that  his  patient  made.  Her 
curious  mistake  that  he  was  Dr.  Malbone 
had  given  him  a  mastery  of  the  situation 
that  was  of  inestimable  value.  Mani 
festly  she  reposed  full  confidence  in  his 
skill,  and  he  made  the  most  of  that. 
She  never  again  asked  for  opinions  con 
cerning  her  father's  return.  Her  only 
inquiries  were  with  regard  to  the  weather, 
the  seventy  of  which  did  not  relax  from 
day  to  day,  from  week  to  week.  When 
Wilder  would  return  from  short  ex 
cursions  over  the  snow,  which  now  lay 
deep  throughout  the  mountains  and  was 
steadily  growing  deeper,  she  would  look 
at  him  a  moment  expectantly,  hoping 
for  good  news ;  but  it  was  not  necessary 
for  him  to  say  that  there  was  none,  and 
she  asked  no  questions. 

The  dread  and  dismay  of  Wilder  grew 
72 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

with  the  heaping  up  of  snow  about  the 
hut.  Before  he  built  the  house,  he  had 
learned  that  in  winter,  when  the  storms 
were  very  severe,  the  shelf  upon  which 
he  had  reared  the  structure  was  banked 
with  snow,  but  to  what  height  no  one 
had  ever  ascertained.  There  had  never 
been  such  a  storm  as  this  within  the 
memory  of  the  white  settlers.  Hence 
the  snow  was  heaped  higher  than  ever 
before.  There  were  special  reasons  for 
this.  The  shelf  formed  an  eddying- 
point  for  the  wind  that  came  in  the  in 
tervals  of  the  snowfall,  and  the  snow 
from  all  sides  was  thus  swirled  and 
pitched  upon  the  shelf.  It  had  not  yet 
reached  the  roof,  but  it  had  to  be  kept 
cleared  from  the  window  and  the  front 
door,  and  that  meant  watchfulness  and 
labor.  Should  it  continue  to  accumu 
late  until  it  reached  the  roof  and  the 

73 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

top  of  the  chimney,  a  serious  situation 
would  confront  the  prisoners. 

Not  while  the  patient  remained  help 
less  was  there  anything  but  a  rigid  busi 
ness  bearing  between  these  two  unhappy 
mortals.  Between  them  was  reared  an 
impalpable  wall  that  neither  cared  to 
attack.  But  in  time  the  patient  grew 
better  and  stronger  both  in  body  and 
mind ;  and,  besides,  strange  develop 
ments  began  to  make  themselves  felt. 

Among  the  effects  of  the  young 
woman,  Wilder  had  discovered  a  book 
in  which  she  kept  a  journal.  She  had 
called  for  it  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to 
write ;  and,  as  a  woman's  observation  is 
keener  than  a  man's,  it  is  best  to  intro 
duce  here  (and  in  other  places  through 
out  the  narrative)  such  extracts  from  her 
journal  as  seem  helpful. 


74 


CHAPTER    SIX 

following    is   from   the   lady's 
journal : 

"  Yes,  I  will  write  it  again,  absurd 
though  it  may  turn  out  to  be :  There 
is  some  mystery  about  this  cabin.  I 
have  tried  over  and  over  to  convince 
myself  that  my  weakness  and  the  un 
natural  situation  in  which  I  am  placed 
make  me  morbid  and  suspicious;  but 
I  know  that  I  am  still  a  hard-headed 
woman,  without  a  particle  of  nonsense 
in  my  composition ;  and  I  know  that  I 
am  able  to  see  things  in  their  proper 
light,  and  to  understand  them  in  a  way. 
And  I  say  that  the  signs  of  something 
wrong  here  are  growing  more  and  more 
evident,  without  furnishing  me  the  least 
clue  to  the  nature  of  the  mystery ;  but 
75 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

I  feel  that,  whatever  the  mystery  is,  it  is 
one  to  be  dreaded.  I  try  not  to  think 
about  it ;  but  where  is  the  sense  in  that  *? 
Is  it  not  better  for  me  to  do  all  the 
observing  and  thinking  I  can,  and  thus 
be  the  better  prepared  for  whatever  may 
happen  *? 

"  I  sometimes  try  to  think  that  it  is 
only  the  strangeness  of  this  strange  man 
— if  I  may  call  him  a  man — that  makes 
me  feel  a  mystery  in  the  air.  It  is  hard 
to  get  hold  of  anything  tangible  in  his 
bearing,  so  unobtrusively  alert  he  is. 
There  must  be  some  explanation  of  the 
fact  that  a  physician  as  skilful  as  he  is 
should  bury  himself  in  these  mountains 
— should  hide  himself  from  the  different 
world  to  which  he  evidently  belongs. 

"  He  is  a  gentleman, — I  will  do  him 
the  justice  to  admit  that.  He  is  a  great 

deal  besides  any  gentleman  that  I  have 
76 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

ever  seen  before.  Let  me  try  to  explain 
this  to  myself.  Although  he  makes  not 
the  slightest  show  of  attending  to  my 
wants,  I  know  his  every  thought  is  upon 
me.  He  sleeps  on  the  stone  floor  in 
front  of  the  fireplace, — that  is,  if  he 
sleeps  at  all,  which  I  sometimes  doubt. 
Even  when  he  is  not  looking  at  me  in 
that  distant,  abstracted  way  that  he  has, 
I  feel  that  the  whole  cabin  is  filled  with 
his  eyes,  and  that  they  are  always  look 
ing  at  me,  day  and  night,  but  with  an 
expression  different  from  the  veiled  one 
of  his  own  eyes.  They  do  not  have 
the  distant,  thoughtful,  perfunctory, 
business-like  expression  of  the  eyes  in 
his  head,  but  a  different  one, — an  ex 
pression  that  seems  to  be  a  mixture  of 
duty,  pity,  kindness,  patience,  forbear 
ance,  and — it  will  make  me  feel  better 
to  write  it — contempt.  I  feel  that  these 

77 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

countless  eyes  are  reading  my  deepest 
thoughts,  and  looking  over  my  shoulder 
as  I  write. 

"Of  course  I  do  not  really  feel  all 
this,  else  I  should  not  be  writing  thus. 
But  I  feel  something.  O  God !  when 
will  this  wretched  strain  be  over  ?  .  .  . 

"  I  have  discovered  that  he  guards 
most  jealously  the  back  door  of  the 
cabin.  When  I  first  came  to  conscious 
ness  after  my  hurt,  I  saw  what  I  took 
to  be  evidence  that  my  strength  of  will 
was  greater  than  his.  I  believe  so  yet ; 
but  he  certainly  has  a  way  of  baffling 
me  and  holding  me  in  a  position  from 
which  I  cannot  escape.  I  am  curious 
to  know  a  great  many  things ;  it  is  my 
right  to  know  them.  Why  does  he 
surround  himself  with  a  deafness  that 
nothing  can  penetrate  ?  Why  and  how 
does  he  make  it  impossible  for  me  to 
78 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

ask  him  questions?  And  who  ever 
heard  of  a  man  so  supremely  indifferent 
as  not  to  ask  a  woman  placed  as  I  am  a 
single  question  about  herself,  her  life, 
her  tastes,  her  family,  her  world  *?  Why 
has  he  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  ask 
him  any  questions'?  At  first  he  had 
placed  my  bed  so  that  I  could  see  the 
rear  door  by  turning  my  head;  but 
when  he  observed  that  I  had  become 
curious,  he  found  an  excuse  to  turn  my 
bed  so  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
see  the  door,  and  I  was  too  proud  to 
object. 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  respect  for  him. 
Of  course  he  surmises  that  I  am  wealthy, 
and  he  must  know  that  he  will  be  hand 
somely  paid  for  his  services.  I  gave 
him  to  understand  as  much  one  day, 
and  he  looked  at  me  in  a  blank  way 
that  was  most  disconcerting.  But  that 

79 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

did  not  deceive  me.  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  unjust,  but  I  know  something  about 
human  nature.  I  think  that  the  man's 
whole  course  may  be  to  impress  me 
with  his  great  solicitude  and  make  his 
services  appear  the  more  valuable.  Bah  ! 
he  needn't  have  gone  to  the  trouble. 

"  I  am  going  to  watch  that  door  in 
spite  of  him.  I  know  already  that  he 
keeps  it  carefully  locked,  and  that  when 
he  goes  out  he  bars  it  on  the  other  side. 
Such  distrust,  when  I  am  so  unable  to 
pry  into  his  secrets,  is  unwarranted  and 
offensive.  Another  thing  I  have  noted. 
The  back  door  leads  into  some  kind  of 
inner  apartment. 

"  How  is  he  going  to  guard  it  when 
I  am  able  to  be  about  ?  Then  his  life 
will  be  a  burden.  I  will  make  it  so. 

"  Gratitude  *?     Oh,  yes  !     I  have  heard 

of  such  a  thing.     But  this  is  an  obliga- 
80 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

tion  that  money  can  discharge,  and  I 
will  see  that  it  does.  Has  he  done 
anything  more  for  me  than  a  physician 
ought  to  do  ?  I  am  familiar  with  the 
ways  in  which  these  gentry  play  upon 
the  gratitude  of  their  wealthy  patients, 
and  present  bills  that  they  think  a  sense 
of  shame  will  accept.  So  long  as  the 
rich  are  the  prey  of  the  poor,  the  poor 
need  not  expect  sympathy  from  the 
rich.  I  know  the  power  of  money  to 
secure  attendance  of  all  sorts,  and  I  can 
see  its  power  manifested  now. 

"  This  man  seems  to  be  utterly  lack- 
ing  in  masculine  qualities.  To  give  an 
illustration :  The  other  day,  when  he 
thought  I  was  absorbed  in  reading, — I 
must  say  that  he  has  excellent  taste  in 
books, — I  found  tears  trickling  down  his 
cheeks  while  he  was  reading  before  the 
fire.  I  noted  from  the  division  of  the 

6  8l 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

book  as  he  held  it  open  the  approximate 
place  where  he  was  reading.  Afterward 
I  asked  him  for  the  book,  and  found 
that  it  opened  readily  at  a  place  where 
the  leaves  were  tear-stained.  It  was  the 
silliest  story  imaginable, — a  foolish  ac 
count  of  true-lovers  separated  by  de 
signing  persons  and  dying  of  a  broken 
heart !  Imagine  a  grown  man  crying 
over  such  nonsense  as  that ! 

"  Here  is  a  queer  circumstance  that  I 
have  noted,  and  have  wondered  about : 
In  not  a  single  one  of  Dr.  Malbone's 
books  does  his  name  appear ;  and  it  is 
evident  that  wherever  it  did  appear  he 
has  erased  it.  There  may  be  easy  ways 
of  accounting  for  this,  but  to  me  it 
looks  suspicious.  Is  it  a  part  of  the 
mystery  of  a  refined  and  skilful  physi 
cian  burying — I  believe  hiding — him 
self  in  these  mountains'?  I  remember 
82 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

to  have  heard  at  the  lakes  that  he  never 
attended  city  people  spending  the  sum 
mer  here  if  he  could  avoid  it.  I  cer 
tainly  know  that  he  refused  to  visit  me, 
and  that  he  sent  me  an  insulting  mes 
sage  besides.  What  is  the  reason  *?  Is 
he  more  or  less  acquainted  with  people 
of  the  better  class,  and  is  he  afraid  of 
meeting  some  whom  he  may  have 
known  when  he  lived  somewhere  else 
and  passed  under  a  different  name? 
The  inhabitants  of  these  mountains 
venerate  him,  and  believe  that  his  skill 
is  omnipotent.  Well,  I  have  nothing 
to  say  against  his  skill,  for  certainly  he 
has  handled  my  case  perfectly ;  but  if 
these  simple  and  ignorant  mountain-folk 
should  see  him  in  the  intimacy  in  which 
I  know  him,  and  discover  what  a  cold, 
suspicious,  weak,  petty  man  he  is,  I  think 
they  would  reform  their  opinion  of  him. 
83 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  During  the  last  month  he  has  been 
going  oftener  and  oftener  through  the 
back  door.  What  business  has  he 
there*?  If  I  did  not  have  a  feeling 
that,  little  as  he  trusts  me,  I  might 
safely  trust  him  to  the  end  of  the 
world,  I  would  have  a  fear  for  my  own 
safety.  But  I  rest  secure  in  the  belief 
that  the  prospect  of  collecting  a  gener 
ous  fee  for  restoring  me  safe  to  my 
father  is  a  sufficient  protection,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  confidence  that  I  have 
in  the  man's  queer  sense  of  honor. 
Why,  he  treats  me  as  though  I  were  a 
queen,  and  bears  himself  as  my  hum 
blest  subject  hanging  upon  my  smallest 
word — up  to  a  certain  point.  Beyond 
that  I  get  bewildered. 

"  Oh,  my  father,  my  father !  There 
is  no  man  in  the  world  like  you,  none 
that  knows  me,  that  loves  me  as  you 
84 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

do !  If  you  only  knew  how  my  heart 
yearns  every  moment  for  you !  Why 
could  not  this  man  have  the  least  of 
your  qualities, — your  iron  will,  your 
scorn  of  weak  things  in  human  nature, 
your  dominating,  achieving  power  ?  It 
is  in  comparing  this  man  with  you  that 
I  find  him  so  small,  so  pusillanimous, 
so  different  from  the  standard  of  man 
hood  that  you  have  made  me  adopt,  so 
different  from  me,  so  infinitely  far  from 
me.  It  is  good  that  it  is  so,  but  it 
makes  me  lonely  beyond  all  expression. 
I  would  rather  be  alone  in  a  desert  than 
with  this  strange  mirage  of  a  man,  this 
male  with  an  infinite  capacity  for  the 
little  things  that  only  little  women  are 
suited  to  do.  He  tortures  me  with  his 
goodness,  his  self-sacrifice  to  me,  his 
making  me  feel  that  he  lives  only  to 
make  me  comfortable  and  bring  me 
85 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

back  to  health.  Where  are  you,  my 
father*?  I  know  that  you  will  come  to 
me  when  you  can.  That  much  I  know, 
I  know !  Come,  father,  and  take  me 
from  this  awful  prison  !  .  .  . 

"  I  think  I  have  done  remarkably 
well  to  be  as  patient  as  I  have  been. 
This  horrid  food  is  enough  to  kill  a 
healthy  woman, — tinned  meats  and  veg 
etables,  tinned  everything,  and  hardly 
any  flour,  but  sea-biscuits  instead  !  Of 
course  my  poor  slave  does  his  best  to 
prepare  things  in  such  a  way  that  it 
will  be  possible  for  me  to  eat  them,  for 
he  seems  to  realize  that  I  am  a  human 
being 

"  I  am  determined  to  bring  this  man 
to  an  acquaintance  with  his  tongue. 
The  loneliness  that  I  feel  is  unbearable. 
He  must  be  as  lonely  as  I,  and,  like 
me,  he  is  probably  too  proud  to  make  a 

86 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

sign.  Of  course  he  talks  to  me  now 
when  I  make  him,  but  about  things  in 
Asia  or  Africa  that  I  am  certain  are  as 
dull  to  him  as  to  me.  He  is  main 
taining  this  distance,  I  am  certain,  just 
to  guard  his  history  and  true  character, 
and  to  keep  me  in  a  position  where  it 
will  remain  impossible  for  me  to  find 
out  what  is  going  forward  on  the  other 
side  of  that  door.  I  will  talk  to  him 
about  myself;  that  will  compel  him  to 
talk  about  himself.  I  can't  bear  this 
isolation.  It  is  inhuman.  And  I  have 
no  fears  that  he  will  presume.  They 
passed  long  ago. 

"  I  have  just  two  more  things  to  re 
cord  at  present.  One  is  that  my  host  is 
growing  thinner  and  more  hollow-eyed, 
and  the  other  is  that  several  times  lately 
I  have  dreamed  of  hearing  the  strangest 
and  sweetest  music.  It  sounded  like 
87 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

the  playing  of  a  violin  by  a  master 
hand.  I  have  been  unable  to  determine 
whether  I  was  really  dreaming.  One 
singular  thing  in  connection  with  it  is 
that  when  I  looked  for  him  the  other 
night  on  his  rugs  before  the  fire  after  I 
had  heard  the  music,  or  dreamed  I  heard 
it,  he  was  not  there.  I  tried  to  remain 
awake  until  he  returned,  for  I  wondered 
where  he  could  be  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  with  the  snow  heaped  up  to  the 
roof  of  the  house  and  a  fearful  gale 
blowing  cold  outside,  and  I  felt  lonely 
and  uneasy.  But  I  went  to  sleep  before 
he  returned.  I  have  no  doubt,  how 
ever,  that  he  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  rear  door." 

This    ends,  for   the    present,  the  ex 
tracts  from  the  lady's  journal. 


88 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

/"T"SHE  patient  had  so  far  recovered 
that  she  could  be  propped  up  in 
bed,  where  she  straightened  out  the 
bungling  work  of  her  inexperienced 
hair-dresser,  and  made  her  glorious  hair 
a  fit  embellishment  of  her  beauty.  She 
was  pale,  and  her  cheeks  had  lost  the 
roundness  and  her  eyes  the  brilliancy  of 
their  wont.  But  she  was  regaining  the 
flesh  that  she  had  lost,  and  the  bright 
ness  of  spirit  that  her  afflictions  had 
dimmed ;  and  her  pallor  only  softened 
and  refined  a  beauty  that  likely  had 
been  somewhat  too  showy  in  health. 

Something  even  better  than  that  had 
been  accomplished.  It  was  not  con 
ceivable  that  her  strong  and  rebellious 

spirit    had    been    ever   before   brought 
89 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

under  other  than  the  ordinary  restraints 
of  a  conventional  life.  She  had  de 
veloped  the  good  sense  to  make  the 
most  of  her  present  uncomfortable  situ 
ation,  and  the  will  to  bear  its  hardships. 
In  the  eyes  of  her  host  the  superiority 
of  her  character  entitled  her  to  admi 
ration,  which  he  gave  her  simply  and 
unconsciously,  without  any  regard  to 
her  sex  and  beauty.  Her  acute  insight 
had  informed  her  of  this  admiration, 
and  her  spirit  chafed  under  its  character. 
One  day  she  said, — 

"  It  seems  strange  to  me,  Dr.  Mai- 
bone,  that  you  have  never  taken  any  in 
terest  in  my  past  life." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly  and  curi 
ously,  and  somewhat  awkwardly  re 
plied, — 

"  I    did    not   wish    to    intrude,    Miss 

Andros." 

90 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  Would  that  have  been  intrusion  ? 
I  hadn't  thought  of  it." 

"  You  must  know  that  I  feel  an  in 
terest  in  everything  that  concerns  you." 
He  said  this  readily,  simply,  and  natu 
rally,  and  she  wondered  if  he  was  sincere. 

"  Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "  lack  of 
all  companionship  between  us  means 
mutual  distrust."  This  was  a  sharp 
thrust,  and  it  found  him  unguarded. 
Then  she  saw  that  she  had  gone  too  far 
at  the  start ;  and  this  impression  was 
confirmed  when,  after  a  pause,  he  re 
marked, — 

"  You  and  I  have  been  strangely 
placed.  I  knew  that  the  conventions  of 
the  best-bred  people  mean  much  to  you, 
and  I  have  merely  respected  your  natural 
and  proper  regard  for  them.  Under 
these  circumstances  it  was  not  possible 
for  me  to  make  the  first  effort  to  be — 
91 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

friendly,  if  you  will  permit  the  expres 
sion." 

She  smiled,  but  the  manliness  of  the 
rebuke  and  its  entire  justice  made  her 
secretly  resent  it.  She  was  determined 
to  hold  herself  perfectly  in  hand,  for  a 
serious  purpose  now  moved  her,  and  she 
would  not  be  balked. 

"  That  is  all  in  the  past  now,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  learned  to  know  you  as 
a  man  of  the  finest  sense  of  honor, 
proud,  reserved,  and  self-sacrificing.  It 
would  not  have  been  possible  for  any 
other  sort  of  man  to  treat  a  woman  as 
you  have  treated  me.  No,  don't  inter 
rupt  me.  There  is  nothing  but  com 
mon  sense  and  simple  justice  in  what  I 
am  saying,  and  unless  you  let  me  say  it 
you  will  be  harsh  and  cruel.  After  all 
that  you  have  done  for  me,  it  is  my  right 

to  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it." 
92 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

He  looked  so  embarrassed  and  miser 
able  that  she  laughed  outright ;  and  the 
music  of  that  rare  note  sounded  in  his 
heart ;  for  it  was  not  a  cruel  laugh,  but 
merry  and  hearty,  as  one  would  laugh  at 
the  comical  discomfiture  of  a  friend ; 
and  as  such  it  fulfilled  its  purpose. 

Thus  the  ice  that  had  filled  the  cabin 
was  broken,  in  a  measure,  at  last,  and 
this  at  once  eased  the  gloom  and  cold 
ness  of  the  wretched  lives  imprisoned 
therein. 

From  that  beginning  the  convalescent 
drifted  easily  and  gracefully  into  an  ac 
count  of  her  world  of  wealth  and  pleas 
ure  and  fashion.  She  realized  that  she 
must  first  open  her  own  life  before  she 
could  expect  her  host  to  give  her  a  view 
of  his  and  of  the  nearer  and  stranger 
things  that  impinged  upon  her.  Her 
voice  was  smooth  and  musical.  She 

93 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

dwelt  particularly  upon  the  lighter  and 
fashionable  side  of  her  life,  because  she 
believed  that  the  tact  and  refinement  of 
the  man  who  listened  so  well,  yet  so 
silently,  were  bom  of  such  a  life,  and 
that  he  had  deliberately  withdrawn  him 
self  from  it. 

Matters  went  more  smoothly  after 
that  day.  But  the  young  woman  was 
finally  forced  to  accept  her  defeat, — she 
had  opened  her  own  simple,  vacant  life, 
but  had  gained  not  a  glimpse  into  his. 
And  she  realized,  further,  that  all  the  ad 
vances  toward  a  friendlier  understanding 
had  been  made  by  her,  and  none  by 
him  ;  that  his  manner  toward  her,  with 
all  its  tireless  watchfulness,  its  endless 
solicitude,  its  total  extinction  of  every 
selfish  thought,  its  impenetrable  reserve, 
had  not  changed  one  jot  or  tittle.  Then 
a  bitter  resentment  filled  her,  and  she 

94 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

hated  him  and  determined  to  torture 
him. 

He  had  not  been  so  guarded  but  that 
she  had  found  a  vulnerable  spot  in  his 
mail.  This  was  what  she  regarded  as 
the  silly,  sentimental  side  of  his  nature. 
She  had  led  him  into  this  disclosure  by 
a  long  series  of  adroit  moves,  the  pur 
pose  of  which  he  had  not  suspected. 
Assuming  a  profound  appreciation  of 
the  softer  and  tenderer  things  of  life,  she 
had  brought  herself  into  the  attitude  of 
one  who  cherishes  them,  and  thus  led 
him  into  the  trap.  Their  talk  concerned 
love,  and  he  opened  his  heart  and  dis 
played  all  its  foolish  weakness. 

"  Can  there  be  anything  more  sacred," 
he  asked,  warmly,  "  than  the  love  of 
men  and  women  ?  Is  there  anything  to 
which  trifling  should  be  more  repugnant? 
The  man  who  loves  one  woman  with  all 

95 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

in  him  that  makes  him  a  man,  has  taken 
that  into  his  soul  which  will  be  its  re 
fining  and  uplifting  force  to  the  end  of 
all  things  with  him ;  and,  noble  as  that 
is,  the  love  of  a  woman  for  one  man 
who  loves  her  surpasses  it  beyond  all 
comprehension,  and  is  the  truest  gleam 
of  heavenly  radiance  in  human  lives." 

It  was  spared  him  to  see  the  amused 
and  contemptuous  curl  of  lip  that  be 
spoke  a  world-worn  heart ;  but  he  had 
let  down  his  guard,  and  his  punishment 
would  come. 

It  was  some  days  afterward  that  the 
blow  fell.  The  convalescent  was  now 
sitting  on  a  chair,  where  her  ever- 
solicitous  nurse  had  placed  her.  She 
was  now  ready  to  strike.  She  would 
hold  up  to  him  a  mirror  of  himself, — a 
weak,  sentimental,  pusillanimous  man. 

Fortunately,  she   could  relate  from  an 
96 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

experience  in  her  own  life  a  tale  whose 
ridiculous  hero  she  judged  had  been 
just  such  a  man  as  Dr.  Malbone.  She 
would  be  violating  none  of  the  rules  of 
hospitality.  Her  host  had  permitted  her 
to  walk  into  a  humiliating  position,  and 
her  desire  to  punish  him  should  not  be 
denied  gratification. 

She  had  brought  the  talk  round  to 
the  mistakes  that  men  and  women  make 
in  the  bestowal  of  their  affection,  and 
remarked  carelessly  that  men  were  pro 
verbially  stupid  in  estimating  the  loveli 
ness  of  women.  Almost  without  excep 
tion,  she  declared,  they  preferred  girls 
for  their  beauty,  their  softness,  their  nega 
tive  qualities,  their  genuine  or  pretended 
helplessness ;  and  she  added  that  a 
woman  of  strength  and  true  worth 
would  scorn  a  love  so  cheaply  won  and 

held  in  so  light  esteem  by  its  bestowers. 
7  97 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"But  some  girls,"  she  added,  "are 
even  worse  than  men.  You  may  gen 
erally  expect  stupidity  from  a  man,  but 
not  always  folly  from  a  girl.  A  rather 
distressing  case  of  a  girl's  folly  once 
came  to  my  notice.  There  was  a  girl 
who  had  been  my  classmate  in  school. 
It  was  there  that  we  formed  for  each 
other  the  girlish  affection  which  all  girls 
must  have  at  that  age.  Yet  the  differ 
ence  between  us  was  great  even  then, 
and  it  increased  after  we  had  gone  out 
into  the  world.  She  and  I  moved  in  the 
same  circle.  Her  parents  were  wealthy, 
and  she  had  every  opportunity  to  see 
and  learn  life  and  get  something  of  value 
from  it.  Instead  of  that,  she  grew  more 
and  more  retired,  and  less  fitted  for  the 
life  to  which  she  belonged.  She  was 
the  most  unpractical  and  romantic  girl 
that  ever  lived.  Her  girl  friends  dropped 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

her  one  by  one.  I  was  the  last  to  re 
main,  and  I  did  all  I  could  to  get  some 
worldly  sense  into  her  soft  and  foolish 
head.  She  would  only  smile,  and  put 
her  arms  round  me,  and  declare  that  she 
knew  she  was  foolish,  but  that  she 
couldn't  help  it. 

"She  was  very  fond  of  music  and 
poetry,  and  at  last  I  learned  that  she 
was  taking  lessons  on  the  violin  from 
some  fiddling  nobody  who  made  his 
living  by  playing  and  teaching.  I 
never  happened  to  see  him,  or  I  might 
have  done  something  to  stop  the  mis 
chief  that  was  brewing.  Her  parents 
were  blind  to  her  folly,  but  that  is  a 
common  weakness  of  parents. 

44  There  never  had  been  any  great  ex 
change  of  confidences  between  Ada  and 
me  since  our  school-days.  I  could  have 
told  her  a  great  deal  about  the  ways  of 

99 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

men, — you  see,"  the  narrator  hastened 
to  add,  "  I  had  been  a  very  good  ob 
server,  and  had  learned  some  things  that 
it  is  to  the  advantage  of  every  girl  to 
know.  I  mean,  you  understand,  about 
love.  It  is  only  people  with  a  silly 
view  of  that  subject  that  ever  get  into 
trouble.  Girls  of  Ada's  disposition  have 
no  sense ;  they  invariably  suffer  through 
lack  of  perception  and  strength. 

"Although  I  did  not  see  much  of 
her,  it  at  last  became  evident  that  some 
thing  serious  was  the  matter.  Her 
manner  became  softer  and  gentler,  her 
sympathies  were  keener,  and  there  was 
a  light  in  her  eyes  that  an  observing 
woman  cannot  misunderstand.  I  was 
somewhat  older  than  she,  and  that  gave 
me  an  advantage  in  the  plan  that  I 
decided  upon  ;  but  of  greater  advantage 
was  her  reliance  upon  me.  It  was 


100 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

necessary  that  I  should  gain  her  full 
confidence,  as  I  didn't  wish  to  take  any 
step  in  the  dark,  nor  one  that  might 
have  proved  useless.  You  will  under 
stand  that  in  all  I  afterward  did  and 
caused  to  be  done  I  acted  solely  from  a 
regard  for  her  welfare.  I  believed  that 
she  had  formed  an  attachment  for  this 
— this  fiddler — bah  !  Everything  in  me 
revolts  when  I  think  of  it.  Here  was  a 
girl  that  was  pretty,  sweet,  gracious,  the 
soul  of  trust  and  fidelity,  ready  to  throw 
herself  away  upon  an  unspeakable  fid 
dler  !  And  there  was  no  excuse  what 
ever  for  it.  A  score  of  men  adored  her, 
— men  of  her  own  station  in  life, — men 
of  wealth,  men  of  culture,  men  of 
strength  and  character,  men  of  birth, 
men  of  consequence  in  the  world.  In 
credible  as  it  may  seem,  they  passed 
over  other  girls  far  more  capable  in 


101 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 


every  way,  and  sighed  for  this  shy 
violet. 

"I  knew  that  there  was  something 
wrong  in  her  refusal  to  accept  the  atten 
tions  of  any  of  them.  I  knew  that  her 
inherited  tastes,  the  examples  all  around 
her,  and  her  natural  regard  for  the  wishes 
of  her  parents  and  friends,  ought  to  have 
induced  her  to  give  her  affections  to  a 
man  worthy  of  her.  I  determined  to 
find  out  what  that  obstacle  was ;  and  it 
was  solely  for  her  own  good  that  I  did 
so.  I  knew  that  if  she  married  this — 
this  low  musician,  her  life  would  be 
filled  with  bitterness,  disappointment, 
and  regrets.  I  knew  that  she  would 
soon  come  to  be  ashamed  of  the  al 
liance.  I  knew " 

"  How  did  you  know  all  that  *?"  came 
in  a  voice  so  strange,  so  constrained,  so 
distant,  that  she  turned  in  wonder  toward 

102 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

her  host.  He  sat  looking  into  the  fire, 
the  ruddy  glow  of  which  concealed  the 
death-like  pallor  that  during  the  last  few 
minutes  had  been  deepening  in  his  face. 

"  How  did  I  know  it  ?"  she  responded 
in  surprise.  "  That  is  a  singular  ques 
tion  from  one  who  ought  to  be  as  well 
aware  of  it  as  I." 

He  made  no  reply,  and  she  turned 
her  head  to  the  window  and  watched 
the  snow  steadily  rebuilding  the  bank 
that  her  host  had  so  recently  cleared 
away. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  remarked,  with  a  slight 
sneer,  "  you  asked  that  question  to  get 
an  argument  with  me,  for  I  have  heard 
you  express  romantic  and  sentimental 
views  on  the  subject  of  love.  But  of 
one  thing  I  am  confident :  I  know  that 
you  have  been  a  man  of  the  world,  and 

that   you    understand   life   and   human 
103 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

nature ;  and  I  know  that  while  men 
like  to  assume  a  sentimental  attitude 
toward  love,  it  is  merely  a  pose.  I  will 
not  argue  the  matter  with  you.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  that  such  a  marriage 
would  have  been  a  fatal  mistake." 

She  said  this  in  a  hard,  emphatic  way 
that  indicated  her  desire  to  end  the  dis 
cussion.  Then  she  resumed  her  story. 

"  I  got  into  her  confidence  by  pro 
fessing  sympathy  with  her,  and  adopting 
her  point  of  view, — by  anticipating  it,  I 
mean,  for  she  was  t(  o  guarded  to  dis 
close  it.  The  poor  little  idiot  fell  into 
the  trap.  She  had  been  carrying  her 
secret  for  months,  and  the  burden  of  it 
was  wearing  her  out.  You  know,  a 
nature  of  that  kind  must  have  sym 
pathy,  must  have  some  one  to  listen, 
must  have  a  confidant.  She  had  not 

dared  to  trust  her  parents,  for  she  knew 
104 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

that  they  would  put  a  stop  to  her  folly. 
When  she  found,  as  she  thought,  that  I 
was  in  full  sympathy  with  her,  she  laid 
her  poor  foolish  heart  completely  open. 
And  what  do  you  think  she  was  going 
to  do?" 

She  turned  toward  her  host  as  she 
asked  the  question,  and  found  him  still 
sitting  immovable  and  looking  into  the 
fire.  He  seemed  not  to  have  heard  her, 
for  he  made  no  answer ;  and  his  stony 
silence  and  stillness  gave  her  a  strange 
sensation  that  might  have  weighed  more 
with  her  had  she  not  been  so  deeply 
interested  in  her  narrative,  and  so  well 
satisfied  with  her  part  in  its  happenings. 
She  turned  her  glance  again  toward  the 
window,  and  resumed  : 

"  She  had  decided  to  run  away  with 
this  vulgar — fiddler.  There  was  but 
one  thing  lacking, — he  had  not  asked 
105 


A  MAN:  HIS  MARK 

her ;  but  she  believed  that  he  loved  ner 
with  all  his  soul,  and  that  he  was  having 
a  fight  with  himself  to  decide  whether 
it  would  be  right  for  him  to  bring  so 
scandalous  a  thing  upon  her.  She  and 
he  both  realized  that  it  would  be  worse 
than  useless  for  him  to  ask  her  parents 
for  her.  She  said  to  me,  'He  fears 
that  I  shall  be  unhappy  in  the  poverty 
that  would  be  my  lot  if  we  should  go 
away  and  marry.  He  fears  that  I 
should  miss  the  luxuries  to  which  I  had 
been  accustomed.  He  fears  that  my 
friends  will  think  he  had  married  me  for 
my  fortune.  He  has  so  many  fears,  and 
they  are  all  for  me.  Yet  I  know  that 
he  would  cheerfully  lay  down  his  life 
for  me.  There  never  was  a  man  so  un 
selfish,  so  generous,  so  ready  to  sacrifice 
himself  for  others.' 

"  I  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing 

106 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

while  the  poor  child  was  telling  me  all 
that  rubbish.  Before  employing  harsh 
measures  to  check  her  foolish  purpose,  I 
resorted  to  milder  ones.  While  con 
tinuing  to  be  sympathetic,  I  nevertheless 
said  a  great  many  things  that  would 
have  set  her  thinking  if  she  had  had 
any  sense.  I  gave  her  to  understand,  as 
delicately  as  possible  (for  I  was  careful 
not  to  rouse  any  resentfulness  or  stub 
bornness  in  her),  that  her  lover  un 
doubtedly  was  a  worthless  fellow,  as 
persons  of  his  class  are ;  that  he  was 
weak  in  character  and  loose  in  morals ; 
that  he  was  merely  a  sly  adventurer, 
playing  adroitly  upon  her  innocence 
and  confidence,  and  anxious  to  leave 
his  laborious  life  for  one  of  ease  at  her 
expense.  I  compared  her  station  as  his 
wife  with  that  as  the  wife  of  a  man  in 

her  own  sphere. 

107 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

"  The  trouble  was  that  she  cared 
nothing  for  the  position  that  she  occu 
pied.  She  honestly  believed,  poor  idiot ! 
that  she  could  be  as  happy  poci  as  rich. 
But  the  great  obstacle  was  her  infatua 
tion  for  the  man,  and  her  belief  that  he 
was  finer  and  better  than  the  men  of 
her  own  station.  She  was  dreamy  and 
romantic,  and  that  is  why  she  idealized 
this  fiddling  nobody.  The  more  she 
told  me  of  his  gentleness,  his  refinement, 
his  unselfishness,  his  poetic  nature,  the 
more  I  saw  that  he  lacked  the  sterling 
qualities  of  manhood,  the  more  I  real- 
ized  that  he  had  made  a  careful  study 
of  her  weaknesses  and  was  playing  upon 
them  with  all  the  unscrupulous  skill  of 
his  species.  She  implored  me  to  meet 
him,  to  know  him,  to  study  him.  Of 
course  that  was  out  of  the  question. 
She  was  sure,  she  said,  that  I  should 

108 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

come  to  admire  and  respect  him  as  she 
had.  I  firmly  declined  to  see  him.  I 
have  even  forgotten  his  name." 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  narration. 
The  young  man  was  so  still  that  his 
guest  looked  round  at  him,  and  found 
his  gaze  fastened  upon  her.  She  started, 
for  she  saw  that  it  held  a  veiled  quality 
that  she  did  not  understand,  and  that 
for  a  moment  filled  her  with  uneasiness. 
He  quickly  and  without  a  word  looked 
again  at  the  fire. 


109 


CHAPTER   EIGHT 

'  I  VHE  convalescent  thrust  aside  the 
momentary  depression  that  her 
host's  strange  expression  had  given  her, 
and  proceeded. 

"  At  last  I  realized  that  all  mild  meas 
ures  would  be  useless.  I  knew  that  at 
any  time  something  dreadful  might  hap 
pen,  and  I  was  determined  to  save  my 
old  schoolmate  from  the  disgrace  and 
sorrow  that  she  was  inviting.  Without 
directly  encouraging  her  to  proceed  as 
she  had  started,  I  gave  her  to  understand 
that  she  might  always  depend  upon  my 
friendship.  Then  I  set  about  the  serious 
work  that  I  had  to  do." 

There  was  another  long  pause. 

"  Well  ?"  said  her  host,  a  little  harshly 
and  impatiently ;  and  that  change  from 


no 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

his  habitual  gentleness  gave  her  a  passing 
wonder.  Then  she  saw  that  she  was 
hurting  him.  She  had  waited  for  that 
sign. 

44 1  knew  that  it  would  be  an  easy 
task  to  match  my  wit  with  that  of  a 
sentimental,  scheming  fiddler  and  a  fool 
ish  girl.  I  needn't  give  all  the  details 
of  the  plan  that  I  carried  out.  It  was 
merely  a  matter  of  getting  an  engage 
ment  for  him  somewhere  else  for  a  time, 
and  of  presenting  to  her  in  his  absence 
some  evidence  of  his  faithlessness.  I 
knew  them  both  well  enough  to  foresee 
that  she  would  never  let  him  know  what 
she  had  heard, — that  she  would  simply 
send  him  adrift,  and  expect  him  to  make 
an  explanation  if  he  was  innocent,  and 
that  he  would  be  too  abashed  to  demand 
an  explanation  from  her  or  make  one 

himself.     There  was  no  danger  that  he 
in 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

would  open  a  way  to  disprove  or  even 
deny  the  evidence  that  I  produced. 

"  All  this,  you  understand,  I  did  with 
the  greatest  delicacy.  The  plan  worked 
perfectly.  They  never  saw  each  other 
again." 

Wilder  turned  and  looked  her  full  in 
the  face.  It  was  the  way  in  which  he 
did  it  that  sharpened  her  attention,  for  it 
was  a  look  in  which  she  felt,  rather  than 
saw,  a  command. 

"What  became  of  them4?"  he  quietly 
asked,  but  she  felt  that  the  question  re 
quired  an  answer. 

"  Oh,"  she  replied,  her  air  of  indiffer 
ence  veiling  her  determination  to  hold 
control  of  the  situation,  "  the  vagabond 
fiddler  was  never  seen  again.  As  for 
Ada — but  that  was  infinitely  better  than 
to  have  lived  a  life  of  wretchedness " 

"  As  for  Ada ?" 

112 


A  MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  She  was  dead  in  a  month," — this 
with  a  hard  and  defiant  manner. 

The  young  man  rose  from  his  chair, 
which  he  clumsily  upset.  In  a  strangely 
uncertain,  stumbling  fashion  he  went  to 
the  front  door,  and  felt  for  the  latch,  as 
though  blind.  Then  he  changed  his 
mind  and  started  for  the  rear  door ;  but 
whatever  purpose  he  had  was  interrupted 
by  his  overturning  a  small  table  and 
sending  the  books  and  other  articles 
upon  it  clattering  to  the  floor.  Evi 
dently  startled  and  confused  by  the  noise 
and  his  own  clumsiness, — though  hardly 
more  so  than  the  young  woman,  who 
was  watching  him  in  amazement, — he 
righted  the  table  with  difficulty,  and  be 
gan  to  pick  up  the  articles  that  had 
fallen  from  it.  Instead,  however,  of  re 
placing  them  on  the  table,  he  put  them 
on  the  bed.  His  face  was  livid,  his  eyes 
*  113 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

were  sunk  alarmingly  deep  in  his  skull, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  become  suddenly 
old  and  wrinkled.  His  hands  trembled, 
and  weakness  so  overcame  him  that  he 
sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

This  state  quickly  passed,  and  the 
young  man  looked  at  his  guest,  who  had 
been  compelled  to  turn  her  chair  la 
boriously  to  observe  him ;  and  when  he 
saw  the  perplexed  and  distressed  look  in 
her  face — seeing  nothing  of  the  gratifica 
tion  and  triumph  that  her  distress  partly 
obscured — he  smiled  faintly  and  came 
firmly  to  his  feet.  "  It  must  have  been 
an  attack  of  vertigo,"  he  explained, 
feebly.  But  he  continued  to  look  at 
her  so  steadily  and  with  so  penetrating  a 
gaze  that  her  uneasiness  increased.  Had 
she  carried  her  torture  of  him  too  far  *? 
Oh,  well,  it  would  do  him  good  in  the 

end! 

114 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
steadily  grew  stronger  and  firmer,  "  I 
will  tell  you  a  story."  He  was  standing 
directly  in  front  of  her  and  looking  down 
into  her  face.  "One  day,  just  after  a 
great  sorrow  had  fallen  upon  me,  I  was 
strolling  along  the  water-front  of  San 
Francisco,  and  sat  down  upon  some 
lumber  at  the  end  of  a  pier.  I  had 
not  noticed  a  number  of  rough-looking 
young  men  sitting  near  me,  until  one  of 
them  said,  in  the  course  of  the  talk  that 
they  were  having,  '  Yes,  but  I  loved 
her.'  It  was  the  way  in  which  he  said 
it  that  attracted  my  notice.  I  judged 
from  his  appearance  that  he  was  a  la 
borer,  perhaps  a  stevedore  ;  but  there  was 
something  in  his  voice  that  belongs  to 
stricken  men  in  all  the  walks  of  life. 
One  of  his  companions  said,  4  Non 
sense,  Frank ;  there's  just  as  good  fish 
"5 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

in  the  sea  as  ever  was  caught  out  of  it.' 
But  Frank  shook  his  head  and  said, 
'Not  for  me/  The  others  said  noth 
ing,  and  after  a  little  while  Frank  re 
peated,  'Not  for  me.'  Did  you  ever 
hear  a  man  say  that  *?" 

Wilder's  voice,  which  had  been 
steadily  growing  louder,  suddenly  sank 
almost  to  a  whisper  as  he  asked  his 
guest  that  question.  The  wrinkles  were 
deepening  in  his  face,  and  his  glance 
had  a  sharpness  of  penetration  that  the 
young  woman  found  it  hard  to  meet 
without  wincing. 

"Then,"  resumed  Wilder,  "another 
of  his  companions,  seeking*  to  show  him 
the  folly  of  his  grief,  made  some  re 
marks  about  the  woman  that  I  cannot 
repeat.  Frank  replied  without  anger : 
'  Don't  say  that,  Joe :  you  mean  well, 
but  don't  say  it.  She  was  the  woman  I 

116 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

loved.  Every  night,  now,  when  I  put 
out  the  light  to  go  to  bed,  I  see  her  in 
the  room  ;  and  when  I  go  on  streets  that 
are  dark,  I  think  she's  walking  with  me. 
I  loved  that  woman  ;  and  now  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  For  she's  dead,  boys, 
she's  dead ;  and  by  God !  they  killed 
her.' " 

Wilder  was  still  looking  down  into 
the  face  of  his  guest  as  he  concluded, 
and  she  had  been  looking  up  into  his ; 
but  when,  with  a  trembling  voice,  he 
spoke  the  last  sentence,  her  glance 
dropped  to  the  floor.  After  a  pause  he 
spoke  again,  and  his  voice  was  full, 
round,  and  passionate. 

"  They  killed  her,  madam,  as  they 
have  killed  many  another.  How  it 
was  that  they  killed  the  woman  whose 
death  had  filled  this  rough  man's  life 

with  grief  and  despair,  I  do  not  know. 

117 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

But  they  killed  her.  Some  murderous 
human  hand  shattered  a  scheme  that 
the  Almighty  himself  had  laid.  I  wish 
you  could  have  heard  him  say,  4  She's 
dead,  boys,  she's  dead ;  and  by  God!  they 
killed  her.'  The  sound  of  its  agony 
would  have  found  the  heart  that  was 
intended  to  do  more  than  keep  you 
alive  with  its  beating.  Do  you  know 
what  murder  is?  Do  you  know  the 
difference  between  the  gross,  stupid, 
brutal  murder  that  in  satisfying  its 
coarse  lust  for  blood  runs  its  thick  neck 
into  the  halter,  and  the  finer,  daintier, 
infinitely  more  cruel  murder  that  kills 
with  torturing  cruelty,  and  thus  outwits 
the  gallows  ?  The  blood-murderer  is  a 
poor  fool,  dwarfed  in  mind  and  crippled 
in  soul.  Perhaps  he  gets  his  full  pun 
ishment  when  the  law  stretches  his  use 
less  neck.  But  the  murderer  who  out- 

118 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

wits  the  law  in  his  killing,  who  murders 
the  innocent  and  unsuspecting  and  con 
fiding,  who  makes  friendship  the  cup 
from  which  the  poison  is  drunk,  who 
employs  the  most  damnable  lies  and 
treachery,  who  calmly  watches  the  in 
creasing  agonies  of  his  victim  as  the 
poison  slowly  does  its  work, — what  pun 
ishment  do  you  think  can  reach  such  a 
murderer  as  that  *?" 

The  young  man's  voice  had  become 
loud,  harsh,  and  threatening.  Violent 
emotions  were  stirring  him.  His  whole 
slender  frame  seemed  to  have  expanded. 
His  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  were 
blazing,  his  ringers  clutched  at  invisible 
things,  his  entire  aspect  was  menacing. 
His  guest,  awed  and  terrified,  raised  her 
glance  to  his  face. 

"  And   by  whom    is   such  a  murder 

done  ?"  he  cried.     "  It  is  done  by  one 
119 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

who,  coming  into  the  world  with  a  soul 
fresh  and  complete  from  the  hands  of 
the  Creator,  deliberately  turns  aside  from 
the  way  of  nature  and  nature's  God, 
crushes  the  attributes  that  form  our  one 
link  with  heaven  and  our  one  hope  of 
immortality,  throttles  all  that  might  be 
useful  in  bringing  light  and  strength 
into  the  lives  of  others,  and  in  shame 
less  defiance  of  the  Almighty's  manifest 
will  sets  up  false  gods  to  worship,  sacri 
fices  self-respect  for  self-love,  banishes 
the  essence  of  life  and  clings  to  the 
dross,  and  wallows  like  swine  in  a  mire 
of  his  own  making.  The  blood-mur 
derer  is  infinitely  better  than  that.  He 
has  at  least  a  human  heart  in  all  its 
savage  majesty. 

"  And  for  what  is  such  a  murder 
done  *?  It  proceeds  from  a  dwarfed,  dis 
torted  soul,  deliberately,  consciously,  in- 


120 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

telligently  made  so  by  its  possessor.  Its 
purpose  is  to  destroy  the  one  touch  of 
beauty,  sweetness,  and  purity  that  makes 
us  akin  to  the  angels.  It  sees  an  ex 
quisite  flower ;  that  flower  must  be 
plucked,  else  its  beauty  would  flourish 
and  its  destiny  be  fulfilled.  It  finds 
love  in  its  purest,  noblest,  most  unselfish 
form  between  two  whom  God  had  made 
each  for  the  other  for  the  fulfilling  of 
his  own  inscrutable  design,  and  by  lies 
and  treachery  proceeds  to  kill  one  and 
destroy  the  happiness  of  the  other. 
What  punishment,  madam,  is  adequate 
for  such  a  murder?  The  hands  of  the 
law  would  be  polluted  by  strangling  a 
murderer  so  base,  so  cowardly,  so  in 
finitely  lower  and  meaner  than  the  low 
est  beasts,  so  utterly  unworthy  of  the 
honor  of  the  gallows-tree.  There  can 
be  but  one  adequate  punishment,  and 

121 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

only  Omnipotence  could  devise  a  hell 
sufficient  for  it.  And  the  sooner  this 
punishment  comes,  the  sooner  will  the 
vengeance  of  God  be  satisfied.  What 
higher  duty  could  rest  upon  a  mortal 
standing  in  awe  and  reverence  under  his 
Maker's  law  than  to  set  the  law  in 
force "?" 

In  the  dismay  and  terror  that  now 
filled  her  soul  the  woman  could  not 
mistake  the  meaning  of  that  threat,  nor 
the  madness  that  would  give  it  force. 
A  numbing  fear,  a  feeling  that  she  was 
sinking  into  a  bottomless  pit,  put  gyves 
upon  all  her  faculties.  In  a  hopeless 
stupor  she  sat,  in  speechless  dread  of  the 
blow  that  she  felt  must  fall.  To  her 
dazed  attention  the  avenger  himself 
stood  before  her  in  all  the  terror  of  in 
furiated  justice  free  from  its  leash  and 
plunging  forward  headlong  and  irresist- 

122 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

ible  to  satisfy  its  vengeance.  Never 
had  she  dreamed  that  a  mortal  could 
face  a  thing  so  terrible  as  this  man, 
who,  having  dragged  her  from  death, 
and  with  infinite  patience,  gentleness, 
and  unselfishness  had  been  nursing  her 
back  to  health  and  strength,  now  stood 
as  the  judge  and  executioner  of  her 
naked,  trembling,  convicted  soul.  Her 
eyes  strained,  her  lips  apart,  she  looked 
up,  speechless  and  motionless,  into  his 
face ;  and  to  her  his  blazing  eyes  and 
tense  frame  filled  all  the  world  with 
vengeance,  scorn,  and  death. 

"  Woman,"  he  cried,  "  whether  it  be 
murder  or  justice,  your  death  would  re 
move  an  infamous  stain  from  the  face 
of  this  fair  world.  If  you  can,  make 
your  peace  with  God,  for  I  am  going  to 
send  your  damned  black  soul  where  it 

can  do  no  further  harm.     It  is  with  im- 
123 


A  MAN:   HIS   MARK 

measurable  hate,  with  infinite  loathing, 
that  I  am  going  to  kill  you." 

He  clutched  her  shoulder,  and  the 
hot  iron  grip  of  his  fingers  tore  her 
skin.  He  thrust  his  face  close  to  hers, 
and  she  heard  the  grinding  of  his  teeth, 
which  his  parted  lips  showed  as  the 
fangs  of  a  maddened  beast. 

"  You  viper  !"  he  cried ;  "  you  have 
no  right  to  life  !" 

She  saw  his  free  hand  seeking  her 
throat.  Then  her  energies  were  un 
locked.  She  threw  back  her  head,  and 
with  all  her  might  cried  out, — 

"  Father  !  father  !  help  me  !  save  me  !" 

The  young  man  started  back,  clutched 
his  head  with  both  hands,  and  looked 
about  in  a  wild  and  frightened  way. 

"What  was  that?"  he  breathlessly 
asked.  "Did  you  hear?  The  wolves 

are  coming  down.     That  was  the  howl 
124 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

of  the  she-wolf!"  In  a  dazed  manner 
he  found  his  way  to  the  back  door, 
opened  it,  passed  out,  and  bolted  it 
behind  him. 


125 


CHAPTER   NINE 

TV/TORE  extracts  from  the  lady's 
journal: 

"  I  can  never  begin  an  entry  in  my 
journal  without  having  that  frightful 
scene  come  between  me  and  these 
pages.  Oh,  it  was  terrible, — terrible 
beyond  all  comprehension !  I  cannot 
believe,  after  thinking  it  over  and  over 
during  these  weeks  that  have  passed 
since  it  occurred,  that  it  was  the  fear  of 
death  that  so  terrified  me,  and,  I  know, 
made  an  old  woman  of  me.  No,  it 
could  not  have  been  that.  It  was  the 
fear  of  going  with  that  awful  condem 
nation  upon  me.  Was  it  just?  Was 
it  true  ? 

"  He  seems  to  have  recovered  at  last 

from  the  alarming  depression   that  fol- 
126 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

lowed  his  outbreak,  and  this  gives  me 
leisure  to  think,  leisure  to  recall  many 
circumstances  that  in  my  blindness,  my 
incredible  blindness  and  stupidity,  I  had 
overlooked.  I  take  into  account  the 
fearful  strain  under  which  he  had  suffered 
so  long.  He  is  a  delicate,  finely  or 
ganized  man,  and  has  had  more  to  do 
and  to  bear  than  a  dozen  strong  men 
would  have  done  and  borne  so  well  and 
patiently. 

"  There  was  his  anxiety  on  the  score  of 
my  recovery.  Then  there  were  the  end 
less  duties  of  waiting  on  me,  of  thinking 
of  the  thousands  of  little  things  that 
had  to  be  thought  of  and  done,  and  that 
he  never  forgot  nor  neglected.  He  has 
done  my  cooking,  my  washing, — every 
thing  that  was  hard  and  distasteful  for  a 
man  to  do.  Then  there  was  his  con 
stant  anxiety  on  account  of  the  snow ; 
127 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

and  it  has  been  growing  daily  all  through 
the  winter  with  the  increasing  dangers 
and  discomforts  ;  and  besides  his  anxiety 
was  the  hard  physical  labor — far  too 
heavy  for  him — that  he  has  been  com 
pelled  to  do  in  order  to  keep  our  hut 
from  being  buried  and  ourselves  from 
being  smothered.  And,  last,  there  has 
been  the  constant  wearing  upon  him  of  a 
close  imprisonment  with  me,  for  whom 
I  know  he  now  must  have  a  most  intense 
dislike. 

"  I  am  satisfied,  too,  that  he  has  anxie 
ties  concealed  from  me.  That  they  are 
associated  with  something  upon  which 
the  back  door  opens,  I  have  no  doubt. 
There  are  several  reasons  for  my  think 
ing  so.  I  am  so  nearly  well  now  that 
I  could  get  about  and  be  helpful  to  him 
if  he  would  only  make  me  a  crutch,  as 

I  have  often  begged  him  to  do ;  but  he 
128 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

has  always  put  me  off,  saying  that  it  was 
too  early  for  a  crutch,  that  my  desire  to 
be  useful  would  give  me  a  serious  set 
back  through  making  me  overdo,  and 
that  the  main  thing  for  us  both  to  con 
sider  was  the  return  of  my  strength  as 
quickly  as  possible,  and  our  escape  on 
snow-shoes  that  he  would  make  as  soon 
as  I  should  be  able  to  walk.  It  has  all 
sounded  very  plausible,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  common-sense  would  suggest 
that  I  take  a  little  exercise.  In  spite  of 
my  having  regained  my  flesh,  I  am  as 
weak  as  an  infant.  Knowing  that  he  is 
a  good  physician,  I  doubt  his  sincerity 
about  the  crutch.  I  believe  the  solemn 
truth  is  that  he  fears  I  would  try  to  in 
vade  his  cherished  secret  if  I  were  able 
to  be  about. 

"  I  know  that  he  keeps  the  provisions 
in  the  place   into  which  the  back  door 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

opens,  and  that  this  fact  seems  to  give 
him  a  sufficient  excuse  for  going  there 
so  often, — especially  as  he  does  the  cook 
ing  there ;  and  that  is  another  strange 
circumstance.  For  weeks  after  I  was 
first  brought  to  the  hut  he  prepared  the 
food  on  the  broad  hearth  here ;  but 
after  a  while  he  did  that  in  the  rear 
apartment,  explaining  that  the  odors 
from  the  cooking  were  not  good  for  me, 
and  that  it  was  uncomfortable  for  him 
to  cook  before  an  open  fireplace.  I 
protested  that  I  did  not  mind  the  odors, 
and  he  replied  that  I  would  at  least  con 
sider  his  comfort. 

"  Another  thing :  He  has  not  eaten 
with  me  for  a  long,  long  time.  His 
original  plan  was  to  prepare  my  meal, 
wait  on  me  until  I  had  finished,  and  then 
have  his  own  at  the  little  table  in  the 
chimney-corner.  I  did  not  observe  for 
130 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

some  time  that  he  had  quit  eating  in  that 
way,  and  that  he  took  his  meals  in  the 
rear  apartment.  He  always  speaks  of  it 
as  an  '  apartment,'  and  not  as  a  room. 
I  wonder  why.  I  have  been  sitting  up 
for  a  long  time  now,  and  do  not  require 
his  assistance  after  he  has  brought  me 
my  food.  It  would  be  much  pleasanter 
if  he  would  sit  at  the  little  table  and  eat 
with  me.  Is  his  dislike  of  me  so  deep 
that  he  cannot  eat  with  me  ?  With  all 
my  sense,  I  have  permitted  this  con 
dition  of  affairs  to  come  about !  And 
we  both  are  sufferers  by  it. 

"  It  is  no  wonder,  with  all  these  things 
troubling  him,  that  he  has  changed  so 
much  since  I  came.  He  is  as  scrupu 
lously  neat  as  ever,  and  he  makes  this 
poor  little  hut  shine,  but  he  has  changed 
remarkably  since  I  came.  It  has  been 
so  gradual  that  I  didn't  observe  it  until 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

my  blindness  was  no  longer  sufficient  to 
keep  me  from  seeing  it.  He  was  slender 
and  evidently  not  strong  when  I  came, 
but  he  has  become  a  shadow,  and  his 
gaunt  cheeks  and  hollow  eyes  are  dis 
tressing  to  me.  When  he  comes  in 
now  from  fighting  the  snow, — for  we 
must  not  be  buried  by  it,  and  must  have 
light  and  air,  and  the  top  of  the  chimney 
must  be  kept  clear, — his  weakness  and 
exhaustion,  though  he  tries  so  hard  to 
conceal  them,  are  terrible  to  see. 

"And  now  a  great  fear  has  come  to 
me.  It  is  that  at  any  moment  he  may 
break  down  and  die.  ...  I  wish  I  had 
not  written  that,  I  wish  I  had  never 
thought  of  it.  Oh,  if  my  father  would 
cniy  come !  What  can  be  keeping 
him  ?  Do  I  not  know  that  he  loves  me 
better  than  anything  else  in  the  world? 
Am  I  not  all  that  he  has  to  love  and 
132 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

cling  to  *?  I  cannot,  cannot,  understand 
it.  Dr.  Malbone  says  it  is  unreasonable 
for  me  to  expect  my  father,  and  that  if 
he  should  make  the  effort  to  reach  me 
now  it  would  be  at  too  great  a  risk  to 
his  own  life.  He  tries  to  assure  me  that 
my  father  will  be  governed  entirely  by 
the  advice  of  the  people  who  know  the 
mountains,  and  that  they  will  restrain 
him  from  making  any  such  attempt,  as 
they  would  not  dare  to  make  it  them 
selves.  All  that  may  be  true,  but  it  is 
difficult  for  me  to  believe  it.  If  I  could 
only  get  a  word  from  him,  it  would  give 
me  greater  strength  to  bear  the  horrors 
of  my  situation.  But  why  should  I 
complain,  when  Dr.  Malbone  bears  it 
all  so  patiently,  so  sweetly,  so  cheer 
fully? 

"  Still,  that  awful  picture  of  murder 
comes  between  me  and  these  pages  un- 
'33 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

ceasingly.  I  think  I  can  understand 
now  why  men  sometimes  kill  women. 
Why  should  men  and  women  be  so  dif 
ferent?  Why  should  it  be  impossible 
for  them  to  comprehend  each  other? 
It  was  Murder  that  I  saw  standing  be 
fore  me — both  the  horrible  picture  of 
murder  as  he  painted  it,  with  me  as 
the  murderess — me  as  the  murderess  ! — 
and  Murder  in  the  flesh  as  he  stood 
ready  to  strangle  me.  Oh,  the  incredible 
ferocity  of  the  man,  the  terrible,  wild 
savagery  of  him,  the  awful  dark  and 
nether  side  of  his  strangely  complex 
character !  All  along  I  had  taken  him 
for  a  pusillanimous  milksop,  a  baby,  an 
old  woman,  a  weak  nobody ;  and  at 
once  he  dropped  his  outer  shell  and 
stood  forth  a  Man, — terrible,  savage, 
brutal,  overwhelming,  splendid,  wonder 
ful  !  What  is  my  judgment  worth 
134 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

after  this  ?     And  I  was  so  proud  of  my 
understanding  of  men ! 

"  Why  didn't  he  kill  me  ?  It  was  my 
cry  that  checked  him ;  but  why  should 
it?  Was  it  my  appeal  for  help  that 
brought  him  to  his  senses  ?  I  think  so. 
It  touched  that  within  him  which  had 
been  so  keenly  alert,  so  unrelaxingly 
vigilant,  ever  since  I  had  come  under 
his  care.  But  what  did  he  mean  by  the 
howl  of  the  she-wolf"?  And  what  did 
he  mean  by  saying  that  the  wolves  had 
come  down?  Several  times  since  that 
terrible  scene  he  has  waked  me  in  the 
night  with  groans,  and  with  crying  out 
in  his  sleep,  '  The  she-wolf?'  These 
things  have  a  meaning,  I  know.  Why 
does  he  explain  nothing  ?  And  why  have 
I  permitted  an  estrangement  between  us 
that  makes  it  impossible  for  me  to  seek 
his  confidence  ?  Is  it  too  late  now  ? 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  Oh,  the  terrible  moments,  the  inter 
minable  hours,  that  passed  after  he  had 
left  the  hut  by  the  rear  door !  Every 
second,  at  first,  I  expected  him  to  return 
and  kill  me.  Would  he  have  a  rifle,  a 
revolver,  a  knife,  or  a  bludgeon,  or  would 
he  come  with  those  terrible  long  fingers 
hooked  like  claws  to  fasten  upon  my 
throat  *?  And  yet,  somehow,  I  felt  safe  ; 
I  felt  that  his  old  watchfulness  and  solici 
tude  had  returned. 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  overcome  the 
half-stupor  into  which  his  outburst  had 
thrown  me  I  dragged  myself  to  the  rear 
door,  intending  to  barricade  it  against 
him.  The  effort  was  exceedingly  pain 
ful  and  exhausting,  and  brought  me 
great  suffering  for  a  week  afterward. 
But  my  sufferings  of  mind  and  spirit 
were  so  much  greater  that  I  could  bear 
those  of  the  flesh.  When  I  had  crawled 
136 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

to  the  door  and  was  trying  to  drag  a  box 
against  it,  I  heard  something  that  stopped 
me.  I  am  not  certain  that  it  was  any 
thing  real.  There  was  a  loud  singing  in 
my  ears  from  the  awful  fright  that  I  had 
suffered,  and  what  I  heard  may  have 
been  that,  made  seemingly  coherent  by 
my  over-strained  imagination.  What  I 
heard  sounded  like  the  distant,  smothered, 
awful  strains  of  Saint-Saens's  '  Dance  of 
Death'  played  on  the  violin.  But  wild 
and  terrible  as  it  sounded,  it  came  as  a 
pledge  of  my  safety.  Murder  cannot 
come  with  music. 

"  I  drew  myself  away  and  with  great 
effort  clambered  upon  the  bed,  where  I 
lay  a  long  time  in  complete  exhaustion. 
Time  had  no  meaning  for  me.  A  dull, 
massive,  intangible  weight  seemed  to  be 
crushing  me,  and  I  longed — oh,  how  I 
longed  ! — for  human  sympathy. 
137 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

"  The  hut  was  dark  when  he  returned. 
We  had  been  very  saving  with  the 
candles,  for  Dr.  Malbone  explained  that 
they  were  running  low ;  so  in  the  even 
ings  we  generally  had  only  the  fire-light. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  generous  supply 
of  fire-wood  in  the  rear  apartment,  and 
some  of  it  was  a  pitchy  pine  that  gave 
out  a  fine  blaze.  When  he  returned  the 
fire  had  burned  out.  I  felt  no  fear  when 
I  heard  him  enter.  I  knew  by  the  un 
steadiness  of  his  movements  that  he  was 
weak  and  ill,  but  the  first  sound  of  his 
voice  as  he  called  me  anxiously  was  per 
fectly  reassuring. 

" 4 1  am  lying  on  the  bed,'  I  an 
swered. 

"  He  groped  to  the  bedside  and  there 

he  knelt,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands 

upon  the  coverlet.     And  then — I  say  it 

merely  as  his  due,  merely  as  the  simple 

138 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

truth — he  did  the  manliest  thing  that  a 
man  ever  did.  He  raised  his  head  and 
in  dignified  humility  said, — 

"  '  I  have  done  the  most  cowardly,  the 
most  brutal  thing  that  a  man  can  do. 
Will  you  forgive  me  *?  Can  you  forgive 
me?' 

"I  put  out  my  hand  to  stop  him,  for 
it  was  terrible  that  a  man  should  be  so 
humble  and  broken ;  but  he  took  my 
hand  in  both  of  his  and  held  it. 

" '  Will  you  ?    Can  you  V  he  pleaded. 

"  It  was  the  only  time  that  his  touch 
had  been  other  than  the  cold  and  perfunc 
tory  one  of  the  physician,  and — I  feel  no 
shame  in  writing  it — it  was  the  first  time 
in  my  life  that  the  touch  of  a  man's  hand 
had  been  so  comforting.  For  a  moment 
his  hand  seemed  to  have  been  thrust 
through  the  wall  that  hitherto  had  sepa 
rated  us  so  completely. 
139 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

" '  You  were  not  the  one  to  blame/  I 
said.  '  I  alone  was  the  guilty  one.' 

" '  No,  no  !'  he  protested,  warmly. 
'  What  provocation  under  heaven  could 
excuse  such  conduct  as  mine  V 

" 4 1  will  forgive  you,'  I  said,  '  upon 
one  condition.' 

" '  And  that ' 

" '  You  forgive  me  in  turn.' 

"  Very  slowly,  as  soon  as  I  had  said 
that,  the  pressure  with  which  he  had 
been  holding  my  hand  began  to  relax. 
What  did  that  mean,  and  why  did  he 
remain  silent,  and  why  did  a  pain  come 
stealing  into  my  heart  ?  Could  not  he 
be  as  generous  as  I?  Had  I  overrated 
him,  after  all? 

" v  It  was  terrible  !'  he  half  whispered. 
'By  every  obligation  resting  upon  a 
man,  I  should  have  been  kind  to  you. 

You  were  my  guest  as  well  as  my  pa- 
140 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

tient.  You  were  crippled  and  helpless, 
and  unable  to  defend  yourself.  You 
were  a  woman,  looking  to  every  man, 
by  the  right  of  your  sex,  for  comfort 
and  protection.  I  was  a  man,  owing  to 
you,  because  you  were  a  woman,  all  the 
comfort  and  protection  that  every  man 
owes  to  every  woman.  All  of  these 
obligations  I  trampled  under  foot.' 

"  Why  did  he  put  that  sting  into  our 
reconciliation  ?  Had  he  not  done  it  so 
innocently,  so  unintentionally,  it  would 
not  have  hurt  so  much.  I  withdrew  my 
hand  from  his  very  slowly ;  he  made  no 
effort  to  retain  it.  He  did  not  again  ask 
me  to  forgive  him,  and  he  did  not  offer 
me  his  forgiveness.  The  breach  in  the 
wall  was  closed,  and  the  barrier  stood 
intact  and  impregnable  between  us. 

"  Presently  he  rose  and  made  a  fire, 

and  prepared  me  something  to  eat ;  but  I 
141 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

had  no  appetite.  Then  he  found  that  I 
had  a  fever,  and  he  was  much  distressed. 
There  was  just  one  comforting  touch  of 
sympathy  when  he  said  to  me, — 

" '  You  were  sobbing  all  the  time  I 
was  making  the  fire  and  preparing  your 
supper.  I  promise  not  to  frighten  nor 
distress  you  again.' 

"  How  did  he  know  I  had  been  sob 
bing,  when  I  had  taken  so  much  pains  to 
conceal  it  ?  And  yet  I  might  have  known 
that  his  watchfulness  upon  my  welfare 
is  so  keen,  so  unrelaxing,  that  nothing 
affecting  me  can  be  hidden  from  him. 

"  I  was  confined  to  bed  a  week,  and 
suffered  greatly  both  in  mind  and  body. 
I  had  hurt  my  crippled  leg,  and  that 
made  my  physician  very  anxious. 
During  all  this  time  it  had  not  occurred 
to  me,  so  sodden  with  selfishness  is  my 

nature,   that    he    had    suffered   a   very 
142 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

serious  nervous  shock  from  his  outburst 
of  mad  passion,  and  that  only  by  a 
mighty  effort  was  he  holding  up  to  put 
me  again  on  the  road  to  recovery.  A 
realization  of  the  truth  came  when  my 
ill  turn  had  passed.  He  had  hardly 
placed  me  comfortably  on  a  chair  when 
a  ghastly  pallor  made  a  death's-head  of 
his  face,  and  he  reeled  to  the  bed  and 
fell  fainting  upon  it,  still  having  the 
though tfulness  to  say,  as  he  reeled, — 

"  4 1  am — a  little — tired — and  sleepy. 
I — am  perfectly — well.  Have  no — un 
easiness.' 

"  Except  for  his  slight,  short  breath 
ing,  he  lay  for  hours  as  one  dead ;  and 
then  I  realized  more  fully  than  ever  the 
weight  of  the  awful  burden  that  my 
presence  has  laid  upon  him.  I  know 
that  I  am  killing  him.  O  God  !  is  there 
nothing  that  I  can  do  to  help  him,  to 
H3 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

make  it  easier  for  him  ?  What  have  I 
done  that  this  horrible  curse  should 
have  come  upon  me  ? 

"  The  most  wonderful  of  all  the 
strange  things  that  I  have  seen  and 
learned  in  this  terrible  imprisonment  is 
that  his  kindness  toward  me  has  not 
suffered  the  slightest  change.  He  is 
still  the  soul  of  thoughtfulness,  watch 
fulness,  unselfishness,  and  yet  he  has  de 
nounced  me  to  my  face  as  a 

"  Another  thing  I  have  found :  All 
the  training  that  I  have  had  in  clever 
ness  goes  for  nothing  here.  He  always 
avoids  the  beginning  of  any  conversa 
tion  on  subjects  other  than  those  that 
lie  immediately  near  us.  It  therefore 
requires  a  great  effort  on  my  part — and 
I  think  I  deserve  some  praise  for  it — to 
draw  him  into  discussions  of  general 

matters.     In  these  discussions  he  never 
144 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

advances  an  opinion  if  he  suspects  that 
I  have  an  opposite  one,  and  never  op 
poses  nor  contradicts  me ;  but  I  cannot 
help  feeling  that  his  views  are  so  much 
broader  and  deeper  than  mine,  so  much 
wiser,  so  much  more  charitable,  so  much 
nearer  to  what  he  calls  '  the  great  heart 
of  humanity,'  as  to  make  me  seem 
shallow  and  mean.  Am  I  really  so? 
I  try  not  to  be. 

"  With  indescribable  tact  and  deli 
cacy,  he  holds  me  at  an  infinite  distance, 
and  I  have  been  unable  to  find  any 
way  to  bridge  the  vast  gulf.  .  .  .  After 
all,  why  should  I  try?  If  he  despises 
me,  I  cannot  help  it.  This  miserable 
position  in  which  I  am  placed  will  be  at 
an  end  some  time  ;  and  when  I  am  again 
free,  and  in  my  own  world,  I  will  show 
him  the  gratitude  that  I  feel.  Will  he 

let  me  ?  ... 

145 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"What  is  there  so  repulsive  about 
me?  Why  should  I  be  treated  as  a 
viper?  And  why  is  it  that  of  all  the 
men  I  have  known — men  whom  I  could 
handle  as  putty — this  obscure  back 
woods  doctor  sets  himself  wholly  apart 
from  me,  remains  utterly  impregnable, 
shames  and  humiliates  me  with  a  veiled 
pity,  and  feels  not  the  slightest  touch  of 
the  power  that  I  know  myself  to  have  ? 
Is  my  face  ugly?  Are  my  manners 
crude  ?  Is  my  voice  repellent  ?  Where 
are  my  resources  of  womanly  tact  that 
I  have  used  successfully  in  the  past? 
Why  is  it  that  I  fail  utterly  to  impress 
him  as  having  a  single  admirable  trait,  a 
single  grace  of  appearance,  manner,  or 
character  ? 

"  It  is  hard  to  bear  all  this.  I  try  to 
be  brave  and  strong  and  cheerful,  as  he 

always  is ;  but  it  is  human  nature  to 
146 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

resent  his  treatment,  and  it  is  cruel  of 
him  to  keep  me  in  such  a  position.  It 
is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have 
been  at  a  disadvantage. 

"  I  imagine  that  he  has  suffered  some 
great  sorrow.  Indeed,  he  said  so  in  his 
outburst.  His  distrust  of  me  seems  to 
indicate  its  character.  He  probably 
gave  some  heartless  woman  his  whole 
love,  his  whole  soul,  and  she  laughed  at 
him  and  cast  him  off.  That  would  go 
hard  with  a  man  of  his  kind.  There 
can  be  no  other  explanation ;  and  now 
I  am  the  sufferer  for  that  woman's  sin : 
he  thinks  that  all  women  are  like  her. 

"  I  will  write  this  vow,  so  that  I  may 
turn  to  it  often  and  strengthen  my  pur 
pose  by  reading  it : 

"  I  will  make  this  man  like  me.  I 
will  tear  down  the  wall  that  he  has 
built  between  us.  I  will  employ  every 
147 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

resource  to  bring  him  to  my  feet.  I 
will  make  him  appreciate  me.  I  will 
make  him  need  me.  I  will  make  him 
want  me. 

"  That  is  my  vow." 

Thus  end,  again  for  the  present,  these 
extracts  from  the  lady's  journal. 


148 


CHAPTER    TEN 

/TpHE  severity  of  the  winter  did  not 
relax.  There  were  intervals  when 
the  wind  did  not  blow  and  the  snow  did 
not  fall ;  but  there  were  neither  warm 
winds  nor  sunshine  to  melt  the  snow, 
the  depth  of  which  grew  steadily  and  ag 
gravated  the  impassableness  of  the  roads. 
Day  by  day,  week  by  week,  month  by 
month  it  strengthened  the  bars  of  the 
prison  holding  the  two  unhappy  souls. 

With  the  prolonged  and  increasing 
rigors  of  the  winter  harder  and  harder 
grew  the  rigors  of  the  prison.  The 
strength  of  Wilder's  spirit  was  begin 
ning  to  break  down ;  and  while  it  dis 
tressed  his  fair  charge  to  see  him  suffer, 
it  warmed  her  heart  to  realize  that  the 

day  of  her  triumph  was  near, — the  day 
149 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

when  she  should  serve  him  as  gently,  as 
unselfishly,  as  faithfully  as  he  had  served 
her.  It  would  be  sweet  to  have  him 
helpless,  to  have  him  lean  upon  her, 
need  her,  want  her. 

Her  manner  had  undergone  a  great 
change  since  the  terrible  scene  in  which 
her  life  was  threatened.  Her  firmness, 
her  self-reliance,  her  aggressiveness,  her 
condescension,  all  had  gone,  and  she  bore 
herself  toward  her  rescuer  as  mother,  sis 
ter,  and  friend.  In  innumerable  little 
ways  she  saved  him  trouble  through  de 
nying  herself,  and  did  it  so  tactfully  that 
he  never  suspected  the  deception.  Under 
the  influence  of  this  he  had  at  last  made 
her  a  crutch,  which,  though  rude  and 
uncomfortable,  she  declared  to  be  a  mir 
acle  of  ease.  She  believed  that  in  giving 
it  to  her  he  expressed  more  confidence 
in  her  than  he  had  felt  before. 
150 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

Its  introduction  into  the  scheme  of 
their  lives  worked  changes  that  aston 
ished  and  pleased  him.  In  spite  of  his 
distressed  protests,  she  overhauled  his 
meagre  wardrobe,  and  with  deft  work 
manship  put  every  article  in  perfect 
order.  Her  skill  and  ingenuity  were 
employed  in  many  other  ways,  so  that 
the  cabin  soon  took  on  a  look  very  dif 
ferent  from  that  which  she  had  found 
when  she  came.  Little  touches  lent  an 
air  of  grace  and  a  sense  of  comfort  that 
the  place  had  not  borne  before. 

She  relieved  him  jof  all  the  work  of 
caring  for  her,  except  that  of  cooking ; 
this  was  a  duty  that  he  reserved  with  im 
movable  stubbornness.  Nor  could  she 
contrive  with  all  her  wiles  and  persuasion 
to  make  him  have  his  meals  with  her. 
She  formed  many  a  theory  to  explain 
his  conduct  in  that  particular.  Finally, 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

she  settled  upon  this  one :  He  preferred 
to  fill  the  role  of  a  servitor ;  as  such  he 
must  take  his  meals  apart.  But  why 
should  he  so  choose  *?  Was  it  because 
he  deemed  it  the  safer  course  for  them 
both?  Was  it  because  he  wished  to 
discipline  her  by  placing  her  above  him, 
when  by  obvious  right  they  were  equals'? 
Speculation  was  useless ;  she  was  forced 
to  accept  the  fact,  which  she  did  with 
all  the  grace  at  her  command. 

He  had  grown  thin  to  emaciation. 
His  hands  were  those  of  a  skeleton  cov 
ered  tightly  with  skin.  His  cheeks  were 
greatly  sunken,  and  the  drawn  skin  upon 
his  cheek-bones  was  a  chalky  white. 
But  his  eyes  were  the  most  haunting  of 
his  features.  They  seemed  to  be  look 
ing  always  for  something  that  could  not 
be  found,  and  to  show  a  mortal  dread  of 
a  catastrophe  that  had  given  no  sign  of 
152 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

its  imminence.  In  their  impenetrable 
depths  she  imagined  that  she  saw  all 
mysteries,  all  fears,  all  anxieties. 

Still,  though  very  weak,  he  kept  stur 
dily  and  cheerfully  at  his  duties.  There 
was  the  snow  to  fight.  There  was  the 
fire  to  be  kept  up,  for  the  cold  was  in 
tense.  There  was  the  cooking  to  do. 

Uncomfortable  as  her  bed  was,  she 
knew  that  it  was  luxurious  in  compari 
son  with  the  thinly  covered  floor  of 
stones  and  earth  upon  which  he  slept. 
In  time  this  came  to  haunt  her  unceas 
ingly,  and  she  pondered  every  conceiv 
able  plan  to  make  him  more  comfort 
able.  At  first  it  was  her  firm  intention 
to  make  him  take  the  bed  while  she 
slept  on  the  floor ;  but  she  knew  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  make  the  sugges 
tion  ;  so  she  was  forced  to  abandon  the 
idea,  dear  as  it  was  to  her,  and  happy  as 
'S3 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

its  adoption  would  have  made  her.  In 
stead,  she  did  what  she  could  to  make 
his  pallet  comfortable.  Her  ingenuity 
made  so  great  a  difference  that  his  grati 
tude  touched  her. 

One  day  she  discovered  him  in  ago 
nizing  pain.  The  torture  was  so  great 
that  it  broke  down  his  iron  fortitude  and 
drew  his  face  awry.  She  was  instantly 
at  his  side,  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
her  face  showing  a  wistful  anxiety. 

"What  is  it,  my  friend?"  she  in 
quired,  in  the  gentlest  voice. 

With  a  pitiful  effort  at  self-mastery 
he  declared  that  it  was  only  a  trifling 
and  transitory  pain,  and  that  it  was  rap 
idly  passing.  She  knelt  beside  him  and 
looked  anxiously  into  his  face.  Her 
solicitude  evidently  increased  his  suffer 
ing,  but  she  was  determined  to  make  the 
fight  then  and  there. 
154 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,  my  friend,"  she 
begged. 

This  was  the  second  time  that  she  had 
called  him  "  my  friend." 

"  It  is  only  rheumatism,"  he  said, 
somewhat  impatiently,  and  making  a 
gentle  effort  to  push  her  away.  But  she 
persisted. 

"  That  is  not  a  trifling  thing,"  she 
said,  "for  your  strength  is  greatly  re 
duced.  Where  is  the  pain  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  you  are  only 
making  it  harder  for  me  !"  he  petulantly 
exclaimed. 

A  great  gladness  filled  her  heart,  for 
she  knew  that  he  was  giving  way,  and 
that  her  solicitude  was  hastening  his  col 
lapse. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  will  make  you 
well.  Where  is  the  pain?"  His  face 
gave  the  glad  sign  of  his  wavering. 
155 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

"Where  is  the  pain4?"  she  repeated. 
"  It  is  my  right  to  know  and  your  duty 
to  tell  me." 

44  In  my "  he  said,  gasping,  "  in 

my  chest." 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  bed,  which 
she  prepared  for  him.  When  he  saw 
what  her  intention  was  he  came  to  his 
feet  with  great  effort.  Before  she  could 
divine  his  purpose  or  check  him,  he  had 
gone  to  the  rear  door,  hastily  opened  it, 
and  saying,  "  I  will  be  back  in  a  mo 
ment,"  passed  out  and  closed  it  after 
him.  She  stood  bewildered  at  the  neat 
ness  with  which  he  had  baffled  her,  and 
alarmed  for  his  safety.  But  he  had 
promised  to  return  at  once,  and  she 
knew  that  he  would  if  he  could.  To 
her  great  relief  he  soon  came  back,  bear 
ing  some  biscuits  and  a  few  tins  of  pro 
visions.  As  he  stepped  within  and 
156 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

locked  the  door  he  dropped  a  tin,  and 
before  she  could  go  to  his  assistance  he 
had  fallen  while  trying  to  pick  it  up. 
She  drew  him  to  his  feet,  and  was 
amazed  to  discover  how  much  stronger 
she  was  than  he,  and  yet  she  had 
thought  herself  very  weak.  She  seated 
him  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
began  to  remove  his  shoes. 

"  No,  no  !"  he  gasped  ;  "  you  shall 
not  do  that." 

But  she  kept  on  and  succeeded,  and 
laid  him  upon  the  bed  and  drew  the 
covers  over  him. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "tell  me  what  to 
give  you." 

He  did  so,  and  it  gave  her  infinite 
satisfaction  to  have  him  take  the  medi 
cine  from  her  hand.  Soon  his  pain  re 
laxed,  and  he  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber. 

While  she  watched  him  as  might  a 
157 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

mother  her  slumbering  first-born,  her 
soul  warmed  and  expanded,  and  her  one 
shy  regret  was  that  his  head  was  not 
resting  on  her  breast.  But  there  were 
duties  awaiting  her.  She  took  up  the 
surplus  ashes  from  the  hearth.  She  re 
vived  the  fire  with  the  wood  that  he 
had  heaped  up  at  the  chimney-side  the 
night  before.  She  put  snow  into  a  ves 
sel  to  heat  water.  She  stowed  away  his 
pallet.  She  prepared  to  make  tea  as 
soon  as  the  water  should  be  hot.  In 
the  performance  of  these  and  other 
minor  tasks  she  was  very  happy,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  she  had  entered 
the  hut  she  sang  softly.  The  work  was 
not  easy,  for  she  had  little  strength, 
being  unused  so  long  to  exercise,  and 
her  lameness  and  the  crutch  interfered 
sorely. 

One  sting  hurt  unceasingly.     She  re- 
158 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

fleeted  that  her  host  had  decided  to  take 
to  the  bed  under  her  persuasion,  and 
that  he  had  brought  the  provisions  from 
the  rear  apartment  so  that  she  might 
prepare  food  during  his  helplessness ; 
but  -this  was  because  he  had  not  trusted 
her  to  get  the  provisions  herself, — had 
made  it  unnecessary  for  her  to  enter  the 
forbidden  chamber.  As  well  as  she 
could  she  tried  to  be  generous ;  she 
tried  to  think  that  a  man  so  kind,  so 
thoughtful,  so  respectful,  must  have  the 
best  reasons  for  keeping  her  out  of  that 
room.  If  so,  she  had  no  right  to  expect 
his  confidence.  But  why  did  he  give 
her  no  explanation?  Why  should  he 
not  trust  her  to  that  extent?  This  was 
the  sting  that  hurt. 

In    a    vague    way   she    believed   that 
something  ought  to  be  put  on  his  chest 
for  the  pain  that  he  had  suffered  there. 
159 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

She  had  an  intense  desire  to  do  some 
thing  for  him.  She  thought  that  cloths 
saturated  with  liniment  would  be  good 
for  him.  With  great  caution,  to  avoid 
waking  him,  she  opened  the  garments 
covering  his  chest.  He  still  slept 
heavily,  for  the  medicine  that  he  had 
taken  carried  a  soporific  element.  When 
she  had  bared  his  breast  and  seen  the 
frightful  emaciation  of  his  body,  she 
quickly  covered  him,  fell  upon  her  face 
to  the  floor,  and  sobbed. 

The  day  advanced,  but  still  he  slept. 
Her  one  hope  now  was  that  he  would 
sleep  into  the  night,  for  that  would  re 
quire  her  to  sleep  on  the  pallet  before 
the  hearth.  She  had  another  precious 
hope,  and  it  was  that  they  would  at  last 
eat  a  meal  together;  but  she  would 
rather  that  he  slept ;  so,  toward  evening, 
she  made  a  simple  meal  and  ate  her 

160 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

share  alone,  and  kept  his  ready  for  him 
against  his  waking. 

She  marvelled  that  there  was  so  much 
to  do  in  so  small  a  place,  and  that  the 
day — the  sweetest,  she  believed,  of  all 
the  days  of  her  life — had  passed  so 
quickly.  At  short  intervals  she  would 
lean  over  him  and  listen  to  his  short, 
half-checked  breathing ;  or  she  would 
gently  lay  her  cool  hand  upon  his  hot 
forehead,  or  hold  one  of  his  burning 
hands  in  hers,  and  then  press  it  to  her 
cheek.  It  seemed  surpassingly  wonder 
ful  that  the  strong  man,  strong  in  spirit 
only,  should  be  lying  now  as  helpless  as 
an  infant,  wholly  dependent  upon  her. 

At  times  he  was  restless,  and  talked 
unintelligibly  in  his  sleep ;  she  was  in 
stantly  at  his  side,  to  soothe  him  with 
her  cool,  soft  hand  upon  his  face ;  and 
when  she  saw  that  it  always  calmed 

161 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

him,  she  sighed  from  the  sweet  pain 
that  filled  her  breast.  Once,  when  he 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  waking,  she 
slipped  her  arm  under  his  head,  and 
gave  him  more  of  the  medicine,  which 
he  took  unresistingly,  and  slept  again.* 

As  the  night  wore  on,  she  made  her 
self  unhappy  with  trying  to  choose  be 
tween  sitting  at  his  bedside  and  watch 
ing,  and  suffering  the  hardship  that  he 
had  borne  so  long  in  sleeping  on  the 
pallet.  While  she  was  in  the  throes  of 
this  contention,  another  urgent  matter 
arose.  It  had  been  her  host's  custom 
to  bring  in  a  supply  of  wood  every 
night.  That  which  he  had  brought  the 
night  before  was  now  exhausted,  and 
more  was  needed.  How  could  she  get 
it?  She  knew  that  he  had  locked  the 
back  door  and  put  the  key  into  a  certain 

pocket.     She  knew  that  she  could  not 
162 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

get  the  wood  without  the  key.  Pro 
curing  a  supply  of  fuel  was  one  pre 
caution  that  he  had  overlooked  when  he 
had  brought  in  a  supply  of  provisions. 

He  was  in  a  profound  slumber.  She 
could  get  the  key,  and  thus  provide  the 
wood  for  the  night.  But  would  it  be 
right  to  do  so?  If  the  fire  went  out 
the  cold  would  be  intense,  and  might 
prove  fatal  to  him.  If  she  should  enter 
the  forbidden  room,  would  that  be  taking 
an  unfair  advantage  of  his  helplessness  *? 
It  was  a  hard  problem,  but  in  the  end 
her  sense  of  duty  outweighed  her  sense 
of  delicacy.  With  the  greatest  caution 
she  slipped  her  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
secured  the  key.  With  equal  caution 
she  went  to  the  door  and  unlocked  it. 

Then  a  great  fear  assailed  her.  What 
lay  beyond  the  door  *?  Might  it  not  be 
some  danger  that  only  her  host  could 
163 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

safely  face?  If  so,  what  could  it  be*? 
...  It  were  wise  to  have  a  candle ; 
but  search  failed  to  discover  one.  She 
secured  a  small  torch  from  the  fire,  and 
cautiously  opened  the  door. 

To  her  surprise,  no  chamber  was  re 
vealed,  but  merely  a  walled  and  roofed 
passage  closed  at  the  farther  end  with  a 
door.  Piled  within  it  was  a  store  of 
wood ;  there  was  nothing  else.  It  was 
very  awkward  for  the  young  woman  to 
carry  the  crutch,  the  torch,  and  the 
wood  all  at  once ;  it  was  necessary  to 
relinquish  the  torch.  She  carried  it 
back  to  the  fireplace,  and  went  again  to 
the  passage,  piled  some  wood  in  her  free 
arm,  and  started  back.  As  she  did  so 
she  saw  her  host  sitting  up  and  staring 
at  her  in  horror.  This  so  frightened 
her  that  she  dropped  the  wood,  screamed, 

and  fell  fainting  to  the  floor. 
164 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

When  she  became  conscious  she 
found  herself  on  the  bed  and  her  host 
watching  beside  her.  There  was  the  old 
look  of  command  in  his  face,  the  old  veil 
that  hung  between  her  and  his  confidence ; 
and  thus  her  glorious  day  had  come  to 
an  inglorious  end,  and  her  spirit  was 
nearly  crushed.  Her  host  had  recovered 
in  a  measure, — sufficiently  for  him  to 
resume  the  command  of  his  house. 
No  questions  were  asked,  no  explana 
tions  were  given.  He  thanked  her 
gratefully  for  her  kindness  to  him,  and 
thus  her  brief  happiness  came  to  an  end. 
The  old  round  of  labor,  of  waiting,  of 
hoping,  of  suffering,  of  imprisonment, 
was  taken  up  again. 


165 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 
A  FEW  days  afterward  they  were 
sitting  before  the  fire  in  silence. 
It  had  become  habitual  with  the  young 
woman  to  study  every  look  and  move 
ment  of  her  host ;  to  anticipate  him  in 
the  discharge  of  the  household  duties ; 
to  provide  for  him  every  little  comfort 
that  the  meagre  resources  of  the  hut 
afforded ;  and  to  observe  with  a  strange 
pleasure  the  steady  breaking  down  of 
his  will  and  courage.  She  realized  that 
his  recent  attack,  though  so  quickly 
overcome,  was  a  warning  of  his  ap 
proaching  complete  collapse ;  and  she 
believed  that  only  when  that  should 
happen  could  she  hope  with  sympathy 
and  careful  nursing  to  save  him.  She 
welcomed  the  moroseness  that  was  steal- 

166 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

ing  over  him,  his  growing  failure  to 
study  her  every  want,  and  his  occasional 
lapses  into  a  petulant  bearing  toward  her. 
It  gratified  her  to  see  him  gradually 
loosen  the  iron  mask  that  he  had  worn 
so  long.  Most  significant  of  all  his 
symptoms  were  hallucinations  that  be 
gan  to  visit  him.  At  times  he  would 
start  up  in  violent  alarm  and  whisper, 
"  Did  you  hear  the  howling  of  the 
wolves  ?"  At  others  he  would  start  in 
alarm  to  resist  an  imaginary  attack  upon 
the  rear  door.  A  touch  of  her  hand, 
a  gentle,  firm  word,  would  instantly  calm 
him,  and  then  he  would  look  foolish  and 
ashamed. 

On  this  day,  as  they  sat  before  the 
fire,  matters  took  a  new  and  strange 
turn.  He  suddenly  said, — 

"  Listen  !" 

She  was  so  deeply  absorbed  in  watch- 
167 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

ing  him  and  so  expectant  of  erratic  con 
duct  from  him  that  she  gave  no  thought 
to  the  possibility  of  danger  from  an  ex 
ternal  source.  For  dreary  months  she 
had  waited  in  this  small  prison,  and  no 
longer  gave  heed  to  any  tumult  without. 
The  young  man  had  been  lounging  in 
hopeless  langour,  but  now  he  sat  up 
right,  every  nerve,  muscle,  and  faculty 
under  extraordinary  tension. 

"  It  is  coming  !"  he  cried.  "  I  have 
been  expecting  it  every  day.  Come — 
quick,  for  God's  sake  !" 

Saying  that,  he  seized  her  by  the 
arm,  and  with  furious  eagerness  and  sur 
prising  strength  dragged  her  to  the  rear 
door,  giving  her  little  time  to  seize  her 
crutch.  He  unlocked  the  door  and 
threw  it  open,  but  before  he  could  open 
the  door  at  the  further  end  of  the  pas 
sage  she  heard  a  heavy  roar  and  felt 

168 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

the  great  mountain  tremble.  Wholly 
ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  it  all,  but 
seeing  that  her  host  was  moved  by  an 
intelligent  purpose,  and  feeling  profound 
confidence  and  comfort  in  the  protection 
that  he  was  throwing  about  her,  she 
placed  herself  completely  under  his  guid 
ance. 

The  rear  door  was  opened,  and  they 
entered  a  dark,  cold  chamber.  With 
every  moment  the  roaring  increased  and 
the  trembling  of  the  mountain  was 
augmented.  Then  came  a  tremendous, 
stupefying  crash,  and  the  cataclysm 
gradually  died  away  in  silence,  leaving 
an  impenetrable,  oppressive  blackness. 

The  two  prisoners  stood  in  breathless 
silence,  held  tightly  in  each  other's  arms. 
The  young  woman  asked  no  questions  ; 
her  sense  of  security  and  comfort  in  this 

man's  arms  filled  the  whole  want  of  her 
169 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

hour.  She  felt  vaguely  that  something 
more  dreadful  than  all  their  past  mis 
fortunes  had  befallen  them  ;  but  that  feel 
ing  brought  no  chill  to  the  strong  warm 
blood  that  swept  rhythmically  through 
her  heart.  She  was  at  peace  with  her 
fate.  If  this  was  death,  it  was  death  for 
them  both,  it  was  death  with  him. 

Her  keen  sympathy  made  her  in 
tensely  attentive  to  every  sign  that  he 
gave  ;  and  thus  it  was  that  she  accepted, 
without  surprise  or  dismay,  the  realiza 
tion  that  he  was  not  rallying,  and  that, 
on  the  contrary,  he  was  sinking  under 
the  nameless  blow  that  had  fallen  upon 
them.  It  was  not  anxiety  for  that,  but 
for  him,  that  now  gave  her  every  con 
scious  quality  a  redoubled  alertness.  His 
grasp  upon  her  tightened,  and  by  this 
she  knew  that  he  felt  the  need  of  her, 

and  was  clinging  to  her.     He  trembled 
170 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

in  every  member,  and  swayed  as  he 
stood.  With  little  effort  she  bore  him 
to  the  ground,  where,  kneeling  beside 
him  and  holding  his  hands,  she  softly 
spoke, — 

"  My  friend,  we  are  together ;  and  so 
long  as  each  is  the  stay  of  the  other,  we 
shall  have  strength  and  courage  for  all 
things.  Now  tell  me  what  I  may  do 
for  you."  She  knew  by  the  pressure  of 
his  hand  upon  hers  that  her  words  had 
found  good  ground.  She  gently  pressed 
her  advantage.  "  Tell  me  what  I  may 
do  for  you.  You  are  weak.  You  know 
how  strong  and  healthy  and  willing  I 
am ;  then,  imagine  how  much  pleasure 
it  would  give  me  to  help  you  !  You 
need  a  stimulant.  Is  there  one  in  the 
cabin?  Tell  me  where  it  is,  and  I  will 
bring  it." 

44  You  are  kind,"  he  said,  tremulously. 
171 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

"  But  do  you  know  what  has  happened*?" 
As  he  asked  this  question  he  rose  to  a 
sitting  posture,  she  assisting  him. 

"  No,"  she  calmly  answered  ;  "  but  no 
matter  what  has  happened,  we  are  to 
gether,  and  thus  we  have  strength  and 
courage  for  it." 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  hopelessly,  "  but  this  is 
the  end !  An  avalanche  has  buried  us 
and  the  cabin  is  destroyed !" 

Terrible  as  was  this  declaration,  it  had 
no  weakening  effect  upon  his  com 
panion. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  cheerily  asked. 
"  But  avalanches  melt  away,  and  we 
have  each  other.  And  if  it  come  to  the 
very  worst,  we  shall  still  have  each  other. 
Besides  each  other,  we  have  life,  and 
with  life  there  is  always  hope,  there  is 
always  the  duty  to  hope.  If  we  abandon 

hope,  life  itself  is  abandoned." 
172 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

This  worked  like  good  wine  in  his 
veins ;  but  she  knew  by  the  way  in 
which  he  still  clung  to  her,  seemingly 
fearful  that  she  would  leave  him  for  a 
moment,  that  a  dreadful  unknown  thing 
sat  upon  him.  She  waited  patiently  for 
him  to  disclose  it.  She  knew  that  the 
shock  of  the  catastrophe  had  wholly 
cleared  his  mind,  and  that  the  old  terrors 
which  he  had  concealed  from  her  were 
working  upon  him  with  renewed  ac 
tivity.  Still  he  kept  silence. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  presently  said, 
"that  I  am  glad  the  avalanche  has 
come  ?  I  understand  now  the  dread  of 
some  terrible  happening  that  has  been 
haunting  you.  Well,  it  has  come,  and 
we  are  still  alive ;  and  better  than  that, 
we  have  each  other.  Think  how  much 
more  dreadful  it  might  have  been  !  Sup 
pose  that  it  had  come  while  you  were 
173 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

outside,  and  swept  you  away.  Suppose 
that  it  had  crushed  us  in  the  cabin.  But 
here  we  are,  safe  and  sound,  and  happy 
each  in  the  presence  of  the  other.  .  .  . 
And  I  am  thinking  of  something  else. 
The  snow  stopped  falling  long  ago. 
Lately  we  have  had  warm  winds  and 
some  rain.  This  must  mean,  my  friend, 
that  the  worst  is  over.  And  doesn't  it 
mean  that  the  rain  has  softened  the  snow 
and  loosened  it  to  make  this  avalanche  *?" 

A  sudden  strength,  a  surprised  glad 
ness,  were  in  the  pressure  that  he  now 
gave  her  hand. 

"  It  is  true,  it  is  true  !"  he  softly  ex 
claimed. 

"  Then,"  she  continued,  "  the  winter 
has  dealt  its  last  blow,  and  our  liberation 
is  at  hand  ;  for  the  rains  that  caused  the 
avalanche  will  melt  the  snow  that  it  has 
piled  upon  us,  and  also  the  snow  that 
174 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

has  closed  the  roads.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  best  of  all  possible  things  has 
happened." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that !"  he  ex 
claimed,  with  a  childish  eagerness  that 
made  her  heart  glow. 

"  Besides,"  she  continued,  "  how  do 
you  know  that  the  cabin  is  destroyed  *? 
Let  us  go  and  see." 

Her  gentle  strength  and  courage,  the 
seeming  soundness  of  her  reasoning,  and 
her  determination  not  to  take  a  gloomy 
view  of  their  state,  roused  him  without 
making  him  aware  of  his  weakness. 
Her  suggestion  that  the  cabin  possibly 
had  not  been  destroyed  was  a  spur  to 
his  dulled  and  stunned  perception. 

"  That  is  true,"  he  cheerfully  said ; 
"  let  us  go  and  see." 

Still  clinging  closely  to  each  other, 
they  groped  in  the  darkness  for  the  door. 
175 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  You  have  matches,  haven't  you  *?" 
she  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  in  confusion ; 
"  but  we  can  find  the  door  without  a 

light.- 

That  was  not  so  easy.  For  the  first 
time,  now  that  the  terrors  of  the  moment 
had  passed,  the  young  woman  was  nurs 
ing  a  happiness  that  she  had  not  known 
during  all  the  dreary  weeks  of  their  im 
prisonment, — except  once,  in  his  illness, 
when  it  had  been  of  so  short  duration. 

Feeling  thus  content,  she  suddenly 
reflected  that  she  was  at  last  in  the  for 
bidden  apartment,  where  she  believed 
some  fearful  mystery  was  kept  concealed 
from  her.  Their  voices  had  been  long 
smothered  in  the  cramped  hut.  The 
contrast  that  she  now  found  was  start 
ling  ;  yet  her  thoughts  might  not  have 

reverted  to  the  fact  that  she  was  at  last 
176 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

in  the  presence  of  the  mystery  had  not 
Wilder's  embarrassed  refusal  to  make  a 
light  rekindled  her  interest.  The  first 
thing  in  that  direction  that  she  noticed 
was  the  singular  resonance  of  their  voices, 
as  though  they  were  in  a  place  of  a  size 
just  short  of  the  echoing  power.  More 
than  that,  it  was  cold,  though  not  nearly 
so  cold  as  the  outer  air ;  and  she  heard 
the  musical  tinkle  of  dripping  and  run 
ning  water. 

Wilder  had  evidently  lost  all  idea  of 
direction.  In  clinging  to  his  companion 
as  he  groped,  he  took  great  care  to 
guard  her  against  stumbling  and  col 
lision.  His  free  hand  (the  other  arm 
was  about  her  -waist)  was  extended. 
With  great  difficulty,  increased  by  his 
eagerness,  he  finally  found  his  bearings 
and  advanced  to  the  door.  Slowly  and 
cautiously  they  pushed  on  through  the 
177 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

passage,  and  then,  to  their  great  relief, 
into  the  hut  itself.  This  they  found 
intact,  but  smoky  and  entirely  dark, — 
the  avalanche  had  smothered  the  chim 
ney  and  shut  out  the  light  from  the  win 
dow.  With  matches  they  discovered 
that  the  window  had  not  been  broken 
and  that  the  outer  wall  of  the  house 
held  none  of  the  pressure  of  the  snow. 
In  his  peculiar  fashion,  however,  Wilder 
began  to  foresee  troubles. 

"  The  pressure  of  the  mass  above,"  he 
said,  "  will  compress  the  snow  below, 
and  thus  give  our  window,  and  perhaps 
the  outer  wall  of  the  cabin  itself,  a 
pressure  that  they  can't  bear.  The  hut 
is  buried.  We  can  have  no  more  fires. 
The  worst  of  all  is  that,  having  no  air, 
we  must  suffocate  in  time." 

"  Is  all  that  necessary,  my  friend  *?" 

his   companion    asked.      "We    can   at 

178 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

least  try  to  clear  away  the  snow  and 
thus  remove  all  those  difficulties;  and 
there  is  a  chance — and  a  good  one,  don't 
you  think? — for  the  snow  to  melt 
quickly.  Besides  all  that,  we  have  not 
yet  tried  to  dig  out  through  the  snow." 

"  True,  true,  every  word  of  it !"  he 
cried,  delightedly.  "  What  a  clear, 
strong  mind  you  have  !" 

This  was  the  first  compliment  that  he 
had  ever  paid  her,  and  its  obvious  sin 
cerity  gave  it  a  precious  value. 

It  was  she  that  now  led  the  attack 
upon  their  prison  of  snow.  What  infi 
nite  satisfaction  and  pride  it  gave  her  to 
know  that  at  last  she  was  the  guiding 
spirit  of  the  hut ;  with  what  firm  but 
gentle  tact  she  overcame,  one  by  one, 
his  objections  to  her  worrying  or  work 
ing  ;  how  she  watched  his  every  move 
ment,  hung  upon  his  every  word,  re- 
179 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

lieved  him  as  much  as  possible  of  the 
stress  that  burdened  him,  and  ministered 
to  his  comfort  in  all  ways ;  with  what 
blithe  songs  in  her  heart  and  cheery 
words  on  her  lips  she  lightened  the  toil 
of  that  dreadful  time,  need  only  be 
mentioned  here.  But  it  was  she  that 
led,  that  inspired,  that  achieved,  and  he 
knew  it.  This  was  the  blessed  light 
that  shone  for  her  through  it  all. 

A  search  revealed  loose  and  easily  re 
moved  snow  at  one  end  of  the  hut, 
against  the  face  of  the  cliff.  His  work  in 
the  lead,  digging  and  tunnelling,  hers  in 
the  rear,  removing  the  snow  and  keeping 
courage  in  his  heart,  brought  them  pres 
ently  to  the  outer  air.  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  they  beheld  the  glorious  sun 
shine,  and  like  children  they  shouted  in 
glee  to  see  it.  Both  walls  of  the  canon 

were  still  heavily  covered  with  snow,  but 
1 80 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

numerous  small  slides  had  broken  it,  and 
the  rain  had  softened  and  ploughed  it. 
Evidently  it  was  rapidly  melting. 

Another  scene  held  them  as  they 
stood  hand  in  hand  looking  down 
into  the  canon.  The  great  avalanche 
that  had  overwhelmed  them  had  been 
arrested  in  the  bottom  of  the  canon, 
and  had  made  a  large  lake  by  dam 
ming  the  river.  Rapidly  the  lake  grew 
in  size  and  backed  up  the  canon. 
Soon  at  any  moment  the  growing  mass 
of  water  must  break  through  its  dam, 
and  that  would  be  a  spectacle  to  be 
hold. 

They  could  not  wait  for  that.  With 
incredible  labor — he  no  longer  protesting 
against  her  full  share  in  the  work,  and 
she  heedless  of  her  lameness  and  of  its 
serious  hindrance  to  her  efforts — they 
together,  hand  in  hand,  clambered  over 

181 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

the  snow  until  they  stood  above  the  hut, 
and  cheerily  began  to  dig  it  free, — a  task 
seemingly  so  far  beyond  their  powers 
that  something  wonderful  must  have 
sustained  them  in  assailing  it.  Thus 
they  were  working  in  the  afternoon  sun 
shine,  for  the  first  time  boon  compan 
ions,  and  as  happy  and  light-hearted  as 
children,  when  an  exclamation  from 
Wilder  drew  her  attention  to  the  dam. 
It  was  giving  way  under  the  pressure  of 
water.  Instantly  she  recognized  a  dan 
ger  that  he  had  overlooked. 

"  Back  to  the  cliff!"  she  cried,  seizing 
his  hand  and  dragging  him  away,  "or 
we'll  go  down  with  the  snow." 

They  reached  their  tunnel  and  the 
cabin  in  good  time ;  but  soon  afterward 
the  dam  broke,  and  the  swirling,  thun 
dering  mass  of  water  bore  it  down  the 

canon.     This  removed  the  support  of 
182 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

the  snow  backed  up  between  the  river 
and  the  top  of  the  cliff,  and  it  went 
plunging  down  into  the  water,  leaving 
the  top  of  the  hut  exposed,  and  solving 
the  problem  of  the  prison  of  snow. 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

again  from  the   lady's  jour 
nal : 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  describe 
the  hope,  peace,  and  comradeship  that 
have  transformed  this  place  into  a  little 
nest,  where  it  had  been  so  terrible  a 
prison  before.  The  sunshine  outside 
continues,  and  I  know  that  it  is  but  a 
matter  of  days  when  my  father  will 
come.  It  seems  unaccountable  to  me 
that  anything  in  the  world  could  have 
stayed  him  so  long ;  but  Dr.  Mai- 
bone  assures  me  that  the  roads  and 
mountains  are  still  utterly  impassable; 
that  the  roads,  besides  being  strewn  with 
fallen  trees,  are  in  places  washed  away, 
and  that  our  one  means  of  escape  will  be 
afoot,  on  our  own  account.  We  are 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

now  talking  it  over  all  the  time,  and  are 
ready  to  start  at  the  first  favorable  mo 
ment.  My  leg  is  nearly  well;  only  a 
slight  pain  after  severe  exertion,  and  a 
most  embarrassing  weakness  there,  are 
the  trouble  now.  But  he  is  putting  me 
through  excellent  treatment  and  train 
ing  to  overcome  all  that ;  and  he  has 
given  me  the  joyous  promise  that  we 
shall  make  the  start  in  a  week  from 
to-day. 

"  And  now  I  must  write  of  some  other 
wonderful  things  that  have  happened. 
The  change  that  has  come  in  our  mu 
tual  bearing  and  understanding  is  so  in 
credible  that  I  hardly  dare  put  it  down 
here,  lest  it  prove  a  dream.  I  made  a 
vow  some  time  ago  in  this  journal  that 
I  would  make  this  man  need  rne  and 
want  me.  That  victory  is  won.  And 
I  know  that  in  winning  it  over  him  I 
185 


A  MAN:   HIS   MARK 

have  won  it  over  myself.  O  God,  how 
blind,  how  stupidly,  sordidly  blind,  I 
have  been  all  these  years  !  In  the  depths 
of  my  wretched  selfishness,  in  the  dark 
caverns  of  my  meanness,  I  had  never 
dreamed  of  the  real  human  heart  throb 
bing  and  aching  and  hoping  all  about 
me ;  it  has  taken  this  strange  man  to 
drag  me  forth  into  the  light.  And  not 
at  all  willingly  or  consciously  has  he 
done  so.  There  is  a  sting  in  that.  At 
times  I  hate  him  still  when  I  think  of  it 
all.  It  was  the  silent,  intangible,  undi 
rected  force  radiating  from  him  that  has 
wrought  the  change.  I  feel  no  humili 
ation  in  saying  this.  I  say  it  and  know 
it  in  spite  of  the  great  distance  that  sepa 
rates  us, — the  social  barriers  that  mean 
so  little  and  do  so  much.  It  will  remain 
with  me  forever,  whatever  happen,  to 
have  known  a  man  ;  to  have  known  him 

186 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

in  his  strength  and  weakness,  in  his 
splendid  unselfishness  and  childish  reli 
ance  ;  in  his  simplicity  and  complexity ; 
in  his  singleness  of  purpose  and  variety 
of  attributes ;  in  his  gentleness  and  fe 
rocity,  and,  above  all,  in  his  wonderful 
sense  of  duty.  But  I  wish  he  were 
moved  by  something  besides  duty. 

"  There  is  another  thing  I  must  write, 
and  I  write  it  with  a  consciousness 
of  burning  cheeks.  At  times  I  find 
him — rather,  I  feel  him — looking  at  me 
with  a  certain  gentleness  when  I  am  not 
observing.  What  does  that  mean? 
Have  I  learned  men  so  badly  that  I  can 
mistake  its  meaning?  The  most  con 
venient  woman  will  do  for  the  man  who 
may  prefer  another  but  inaccessible  one. 
Until  we  came  closer  together  since  the 
avalanche  passed  and  the  sunshine  came, 
I  was  not  a  woman  to  him.  No  ;  I  was 
187 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

a  Duty.  But  there  has  now  come  into 
his  voice  and  his  glance  a  new  quality, — 
stay  !  Remember  that  the  weakness  of 
women  is  their  vanity.  Could  there 
happen  so  wonderful  a  thing  as  this 
man's  regard  for  me  of  the  kind  that  a 
woman  wants  from  the  man  whom  she 
worships'?  If  so,  is  he  too  proud,  too 
reserved,  too  conscious  of  his  present 
obligation  of  duty  and  protection,  to 
make  it  known  ?  Does  he  still  fear  me  ? 
Does  he  still  hold  in  his  heart  the  fright 
ful  denunciation  that  he  hurled  at  me^ 
Does  he  still  loathe  me  as  a  murderess  ? 
Is  my  wealth  a  barrier*?  Does  he  lack 
the  courage  to  dare  what  every  man 
must  dare  in  order  to  secure  the  woman 
he  loves'? 

"Loves'?      Why    did    I    write    that 
word*?      By  what  authority   or  right*? 

And  yet,  of  all  the  words  that  the  sun- 
188 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

shine  of  the  soul  has  placed  upon  the 
tongue,  that  is  the  sweetest.  .  .  . 

"Distressing  things  have  happened 
since  I  wrote  the  foregoing.  For  a  time 
the  stimulation  of  sunshine  and  hope, 
the  sure  prospect  of  my  release  from  this 
prison,  worked  miracles  with  his  strength, 
both  of  body  and  mind ;  but  three  days 
ago  he  grew  silent  and  moody,  then 
restless  and  anxious ;  by  night  he  was 
down  with  a  fever,  the  cause  of  which  I 
cannot  understand.  When  I  see  his 
fleshless  chest  and  arms,  I  wonder  if  he 
has  some  malady  that  is  killing  him, 
and  that  he  has  concealed  from  me. 
His  drawn  face,  with  the  skin  tight  to 
breaking  on  his  cheek-bones,  and  his 
extreme  emaciation,  look  like  consump 
tion  ;  but  he  has  no  other  symptoms, 
and  he  declares  that  he  is  perfectly 

sound.     Is  my  presence   so    distressing 
189 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

that  it  alone  is  killing  him  ?  If  so,  it  is 
murder  for  me  to  stay  longer.  If  I  only 
knew  ! 

"  Why  does  he  conceal  anything 
from  me?  What  could  he  have  to 
conceal  that  it  is  not  right  for  me  to 
know?  And  yet  I  know  that  the  act 
of  concealment  could  not  thus  be  killing 
him, — it  is  the  thing  he  is  concealing 
that  has  the  terror.  It  would  be  in 
finitely  better  for  us  both  if  he  let  me 
share  it,  and,  as  I  am  so  much  stronger 
than  he,  I  could  bear  it  so  much  better ; 
the  sharing  of  it  would  lighten  his  bur 
den,  and  my  sympathy  would  give  him 
strength.  Why  cannot  he  see  all  this, 
when  it  is  so  clear  to  me  ?  I  must  be 
patient,  patient,  patient !  That  is  my 
watchword  now. 

"  As  in  the  former  case,  when  he  was 

taken  ill,  so  now  he  prepared  for  his  ill- 
190 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

ness  by  bringing  in  a  small,  but  this 
time  utterly  inadequate,  supply  of  pro 
visions.  Not  in  a  single  instance,  down 
to  this  last  attack,  has  he  consented  to 
eat  with  me ;  he  has  always  retreated 
through  the  rear  door  and  eaten  alone. 
It  is  now  getting  hard  for  me  to  bear 
this  singular  tyranny  about  the  food. 
He  eats  with  me  now,  because,  being 
helpless  in  bed,  he  cannot  avoid  it ;  but 
he  eats  so  little  !  It  is  impossible  for 
him  to  gain  strength  in  this  way,  and  I 
am  distressed  beyond  expression.  He 
simply  declares  that  he  cannot  eat.  Sin 
gularly  enough,  he  is  always  urging  me 
of  late  to  eat  little,  else  I  shall  bring  on 
a  long  list  of  disorders  that  will  prevent 
our  escape.  For  that  matter,  there  is  so 
little  left  of  the  store  that  he  brought 
from  the  rear  that  I  am  uneasy  lest  the 

supply  be  exhausted  and  he  remain  stub- 
191 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

bornly  to  his  purpose  not  to  trust  me  to 
get  more  from  the  place  behind  the  rear 
door.  What  will  be  the  end  of  this 
dreadful  situation4? 

"  It  seems  an  odd  inconsistency  in  his 
nature  that  this  subject  of  eating  should 
consume  so  much  of  his  wandering 
thoughts.  In  his  delirium  he  paints 
gorgeous  pictures  of  feasts.  He  mar 
vels  at  the  splendor  of  Nero's  banquets, 
and  declares  that  the  people  with  so 
much  to  eat  must  have  been  fat  and 
content !  I  hate  to  put  this  down,  for  it 
seems  treasonable  to  betray  this  touch 
of  grossness  in  a  nature  so  singularly 
fine.  If  he  thinks  so  much  of  eating, 
why  should  he  be  urging  me  to  eat 
sparingly  of  the  rude  things  that  his 
larder  might  afford,  and  that  cost  me 
so  much  effort  to  eat  with  a  good 
grace?  It  is  strange  how  many  unex- 


102 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

pected  things  we  learn  of  others  in  in 
timate  association  !  .  .  . 

"  In  glancing  over  these  last  pages  I 
see  how  wretchedly  I  have  failed  to  give 
the  least  insight  into  our  life  and  rela 
tions.  How  could  I  ever  have  had  the 
heart  to  see,  much  more  put  in  writing, 
the  slightest  flaw  in  so  noble  a  character  *? 
It  would  seem  that  the  sympathy  born 
of  this  new  relation  between  us  ought 
to  touch  only  the  best  in  my  nature. 
Shame,  shame,  shame  on  me  !  Do  I  not 
see  his  haunting  glance  follow  me  every 
where,  and  resting  upon  me  always  with 
inexpressible  gratitude  *? 

"  He  is  almost  completely  dependent 
upon  me  now.  I  nurse  him  as  I  would 
a  child.  It  would  be  utterly  inadequate 
to  say  that  this  fills  me  with  happiness 
as  being  a  return  of  some  of  the  kind 
ness  that  he  has  shown  me.  No,  there 

X3  193 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

is  something  besides  that.  The  grati 
tude  in  my  heart  is  great, — greater  than 
I  had  thought  so  small  and  mean  a  heart 
could  have.  I  am  glad  that  I  have  it. 
But  the  joy  of  it  all  is  the  doing  for  this 
man,  without  regard  to  gratitude.  To 
do  for  him  ;  to  nurse  him  ;  to  cheer  him  ; 
to  feel  that  he  needs  me  and  wants  me, — - 
that  is  my  heaven.  And  although  a 
dreadful  fear  haunts  me  that  he  is  dying, 
— that  in  some  way  that  I  cannot  under 
stand  I  am  killing  him, — that  if  he  should 
die  my  life  would  be  empty  and  dark, — 
still,  it  would  be  infinitely  sweet  to  have 
him  die  in  my  arms,  still  needing  me, 
still  wanting  me.  Now  that  I  have 
written  that, — how  could  I  have  written 
it? — I  will  write  more  in  all  shameless- 
ness.  I  want  him  to  say  that  he  needs 
me  and  wants  me, — that  he  needs  me 
and  wants  me  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

194 


A   MAN;   HIS   MARK 

"  As  I  have  written  that  much,  I  will 
write  the  rest,  else  my  heart  will  burst. 
I  love  this  man.  I  love  him  with  all 
my  heart,  all  my  soul."  I  love  him  for 
everything  that  he  is,  not  for  anything 
that  he  has  done.  He  is  the  one  man 
whom  the  great  God  in  His  cruel  wis 
dom  and  merciless  providence  has  sent 
into  my  life  for  me  to  love.  And  with 
my  tears  wetting  these  pages,  and  my 
soul  breathing  prayers  for  his  recovery, 
and  his  delivery  to  me,  I  pledge  and 
consecrate  myself  to  him  to  the  end  of 
my  days,  whatever  may  come.  With 
every  good  impulse  within  me  I  will 
strive  to  be  worthy  of  so  great  a  heart, 
so  noble  a  love.  I  will  try  to  win  his 
love  by  deserving  it.  ... 

"  An  unexpected  change  for  the  better 
has  come.  Our  supply  of  food  had  fallen 
so  low  that  I  had  about  determined  to 
195 


A  MAN:   HIS   MARK 

take  matters  into  my  own  hands,  enter 
the  forbidden  chamber,  and  get  more 
provisions,  when  another  idea  occurred 
to  me.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that 
we  have  more  food.  More  important 
than  that  was  the  evident  fact  that  he 
would  die  for  the  need  of  it  if  it  were 
not  forthcoming.  I  feared  the  disturbing 
effect  of  my  going  into  the  forbidden 
chamber,  and  so  decided  to  make  a 
thorough  search  of  the  cabin  first. 
Knowing  his  inexplicable  peculiarity  on 
the  subject  of  our  food,  I  suspected  that 
at  some  time  in  his  mental  wandering 
he  may  have  concealed  some  in  the 
cabin.  So  this  morning  before  daylight, 
while  he  slept, — his  sleeping  is  incredibly 
light, — I  cautiously  made  a  search  of 
the  cabin,  and  happily  found  a  few  nour 
ishing  things  in  the  bottom  of  a  box, 

where  he  had  either  concealed  them  or 
196 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

left  them  forgotten.  These  I  prepared 
for  him  in  a  most  tempting  manner.  I 
arranged  my  own  dishes  in  a  way  to 
make  him  think  I  had  eaten  abundantly 
myself,  and  told  him  so  when  he  awoke 
and  refused  to  eat,  urging  me  to  eat 
what  I  had  prepared  for  him. 

"  When  I  had  convinced  him  that  I 
had  eaten  all  I  could,  he  took  a  little, 
gingerly,  from  my  hand.  I  had  laid  my 
plans  well.  As  I  fed  him  I  talked  in 
cessantly,  telling  him  a  story  that  I  knew 
would  interest  him.  Before  he  realized 
what  he  was  doing — his  mind  was  not 
as  alert  as  it  normally  is — he  had  eaten 
somewhat  generously.  The  effect  was 
magical.  Color  came  to  his  cheeks  and 
the  quiet  old  sparkle  to  his  eyes.  Before 
long,  to  my  great  surprise  and  delight, 
he  was  up,  and  then  went  out  to  note 

the  prospect  for  our  leaving.     He  came 
197 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

back  with  a  radiant  face  and  buoyant 
manner,  and  said, — 

" '  My  friend,  we  will  start  at  sunrise 
to-morrow.' 

44  My  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  It  was 
a  simple  matter  to  make  our  prepara 
tions,  as  it  was  necessary  that  we  travel 
as  light  as  possible.  It  is  time  that  we 
were  leaving,  for  the  last  of  the  food  that 
he  brought  from  the  rear  is  exhausted.  . . . 

44  The  morning  has  come.  And  now 
we  are  about  to  turn  our  backs  upon  this 
strange  place  of  suffering  and  mystery, 
its  suffering  endured,  its  mystery  un 
solved.  And  without  shame  do  I  say 
that  I  would  rather  walk  out  thus,  and 
face  the  perils  that  lie  ahead,  with  this 
man  as  my  guide,  my  protector,  my 
friend,  than  go  forth  in  all  the  stateliness 
and  triumph  that  wealth  could  afford. 

Farewell,    dear,    dear    little    home,    my 
198 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

refuge,  my  cradle,  my  hope.  I  will 
come  back,  and 

"  He  is  calling  me  at  the  door.  I  must 
kiss  this  table,  these  chairs,  that  bed,  the 
walls.  But  it  is  with  Him  that  I  go." 

Thus  closed  the  lady's  journal. 


199 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 
f  I  VHE  two  started  bravely  in  the  fine 
morning  sunshine.  There  were 
long  and  laborious  miles  ahead,  and  only 
a  short  day  in  which  to  overcome  them 
and  their  difficulties.  In  his  heart  the 
young  man  believed  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  them  to  complete  the  task 
that  day,  and  he  dreaded  the  shelterless 
night  that  would  overtake  them.  But 
should  he  break  down,  the  day's  work 
would  have  hardened  his  companion  for 
the  rest  of  the  journey  alone.  There 
was  a  chance  that  they  would  find  help 
on  the  way,  for  surely  efforts  would  be 
making  to  clear  the  roads.  The  snow 
had  disappeared  from  all  exposed  places. 
They  descended  the  shaly,  slippery 
trail  to  the  road,  and  here  he  was  grati- 


200 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

fied  to  see  that  the  avalanche  had  cleared 
away  the  fallen  tree  and  the  wreck  of  the 
wagon.  He  led  the  way  up  the  canon, 
for  in  that  direction  were  the  nearest 
houses. 

He  found  the  road  even  worse  than 
he  had  expected.  Being  a  narrow  way, 
cut  into  the  steep  slope  of  the  canon,  to 
leave  it  in  rounding  fallen  trees  and 
breaches  left  by  the  storm  was  a  slow 
and  laborious  task,  and  time  was  precious 
for  a  number  of  reasons.  Each  had  a 
load  to  bear, — he  some  covering  against 
the  night,  and  she  some  articles  of  her 
own.  These  soon  became  very  burden 
some  to  both. 

On  they  plodded.  While  a  heaviness 
appeared  in  his  manner,  her  bearing  was 
cheerful  and  spirited.  A  sadness  that  he 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  and  that  she 
bravely  hid  oppressed  them  both.  To 


201 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

find  him  sad  was  sufficient  to  tinge  her 
sadness  with  happiness.  They  rested  at 
short  intervals,  for  the  exertion  soon 
began  to  tell  upon  them,  but  upon  him 
the  more.  They  slaked  their  thirst  from 
the  river.  To  the  woman  it  seemed  a 
spring-time  stroll  through  flowering  fields, 
softened  by  the  sweet  sadness  of  May. 
To  him  it  was  a  task  that  brought  them 
step  by  step  nearer  to  the  end,  where 
he  must  deal  her  the  crudest  blow  of 
her  life.  For  at  the  end  she  expected 
news  of  her  father.  She  would  hear  it, 
and  from  the  one  who  would  have  been 
the  most  glad  to  spare  her.  But  she 
must  not  know  yet.  All  her  strength 
was  needed  for  the  task  before  her.  It 
is  time  to  break  hearts  when  their  break 
ing  can  be  no  longer  deferred. 

He  had   been  trudging   ahead.     He 
must  have  suspected  that  she  observed 


202 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

the  labor  with  which  he  walked,  the  un 
controllable  tendency  of  his  knees  to 
give  way,  the  reeling  that  now  would 
send  him  against  the  bank,  and  then 
upon  the  outer  edge  of  the  grade  ;  for 
presently  he  asked  her  to  walk  ahead. 
She  complied. 

Their  slow  and  laborious  work  pres 
ently  made  it  impossible  for  them  to 
talk.  They  went  on  in  silence.  After 
they  had  proceeded  thus  for  some  hours, 
a  thing  occurred  that  struck  dismay  to 
her  soul.  Her  companion  suddenly  be 
came  voluble.  At  first  he  was  coherent, 
although  he  talked  about  matters  to 
which  she  was  a  total  stranger.  This 
showed  an  alarming  unconsciousness  of 
her  presence.  As  he  talked,  he  became 
more  and  more  incoherent,  and  at  times 
laughed  inanely.  Presently,  with  awe 

in  his  voice,  he  said, — 
203 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  She  was  the  woman  I  loved.  She's 
dead,  boys,  she's  dead  ;  and  by  God ! 
they  killed  her." 

Her  spirit  sank.  After  all  that  she 
had  hoped  and  yearned  for,  there  now 
had  come  back  the  most  terrible  of  the 
ghosts  of  the  bitter  past.  After  all  the 
seeming  bridging  of  the  chasm  that  had 
separated  them,  it  opened  now  all  the 
wider  and  deeper  and  darker. 

"  Do  you  know  what  a  murderer  is  ?" 
he  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice,  as  he 
swung  his  arm  threateningly  aloft.  "  A 
she-wolf,  the  slyest  and  most  dangerous 
of  beasts.  She  comes  whining  and 
fawning ;  she  licks  your  hand  ;  she  wins 
your  trust.  And  then,  when  you  have 
warmed  her,  and  patched  her  torn  skin, 
and  mended  her  broken  bones,  she  turns 
upon  you  and  tears  out  your  heart  with 

her  fangs." 

204 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

Stifling,  faint,  barely  able  to  stand,  the 
young  woman  stood  aside,  and  he  passed 
her  without  seeing  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  resumed  in  great  excite 
ment,  "  I  must  be  a  man, — always  a 
man.  What !  kill  a  woman  ?  No,  no, 
no  !  Not  that.  That  would  be  terrible, 
brutal,  cowardly.  Yes,  I  must  be  a 
man.  She  needs  me ;  I  will  help  her. 
Is  that  door  locked?  She  must  never 
know — never  know  so  long  as  she  lives. 
Ah,  that  is  beautiful,  wonderful,  savory, 
— a  feast  for  gods  and  angels  !  Yes,  I 
will  do  my  duty.  She  needs  me.  She 
despises  me.  Very  good  ;  I  will  do  my 
duty.  She  scorns  my  poor  food — 
secretly,  but  I  know !  She  is  getting 
well.  Thank  God  for  that !  She  shall 
eat  all  she  can.  Me?  No,  no.  I 
don't  want  anything.  No  ;  I  don't  want 
a  thing.  I  have  no  appetite  !" 
205 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

He  burst  into  laughter,  and  the  echo 
of  it  came  back  from  the  opposite  wall 
of  the  canon. 

"  Oh,  my  love,  my  love  !"  he  cried, 
suddenly  becoming  sad,  "  how  could 
you  cast  me  off,  when  all  had  been  so 
true  and  trusting  between  us?  But  I 
know  it  was  better  so.  It  was  not  right 
for  me  to  stand  in  the  way."  He 
paused,  and  his  voice  sank  into  an  awed 
whisper  as  he  said,  "  She's  dead,  boys, 
she's  dead ;  and  by  God !  they  killed 
her." 

He  pushed  rapidly  on,  muttering 
things  that  she  could  not  hear,  that 
she  did  not  want  to  hear.  Not  a  word 
of  kindness  for  her  had  come  from  him 
in  his  delirium,  and  her  heart  was  break 
ing. 

"  When  it  is  all  over,"  he  said  aloud, 

"  I  will  go  to  my  old  friend,  and  he  will 
206 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

nurse  me  back  to  health  and  strength, 
and  I  will  begin  the  fight  again.  I  will 
be  a  man — always  a  man.  I  will  do  my 
duty.  And  the  she-wolf — no,  no,  no ! 
She  will  not  tear  out  my  heart  with  her 
claws  and  fangs.  No !  There  is  no 
she-wolf!  I  say,  there  is  no  she-wolf. 
No  !  She  is  kind  to  me.  I  know  it,  I 
know  it !  She  is  gentle  and  thoughtful 
and  unselfish.  She  is  very,  very  beau 
tiful.  She  won't  leave  me,  will  she? 
She  won't  leave  me  alone  !  But  she  is 
unmanning  me  !  I  must  not  let  her  do 
that !  I  must  be  a  man  and  do  my 
duty.  No,  you  must  not  take  off  my 
shoes.  I  can  do  that.  I  have  no  pain 
— none  whatever.  Yes,  I  will  be  calm. 
Your  voice  is  sweet ;  it  is  music  ;  it  fills 
me  with  peace  and  comfort ;  and  your 
hand  on  my  face — how  soft  and  pleasant 

it  is  !     I  wish  I  could  tell  you  ;  but  no, 
207 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

I  must  do  my  duty  ;  I  must  be  a  man  ! 
I  will  not  listen  to  your  voice.  I  will 
not  let  you  touch  me.  That  would 
keep  me  from  my  duty." 

These  words  raised  her  from  despair 
to  bliss.  And  so  he  had  fought  his  in 
clinations, — he  needed  her,  he  wanted 
her! 

Still  he  kept  on.  She  strained  every 
hearing  faculty  for  his  slightest  word. 
For  what  he  had  already  said,  she  could 
bear  his  forgetting  her  presence.  Still 
they  pushed  on,  he  muttering  and  laugh 
ing  ;  but  for  all  his  madness,  he  was 
wise  and  cautious  amid  the  dangers  and 
hardships  of  the  road.  No  longer  did 
he  advise  her,  guide  her,  assist  her,  and 
show  her  the  innumerable  unobtrusive 
attentions  to  which  she  had  become  ac 
customed. 

At  last  he  suddenly  stopped  in  a  stretch 
208 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

of  good  road  and  looked  about,  bewil 
dered. 

"  Where  is  this  ?"  he  whispered  ;  then 
aloud,  "  Oh,  it  is  the  trail  of  the  wolves  ! 
After  them  will  come  the  she-wolf,  and 

her  fangs "  He  dropped  his  parcel 

and  clutched  his  breast.  "  Her  fangs  !" 
he  gasped.  He  looked  about  and  picked 
up  a  stick,  which  he  swung  as  a  club 
about  him.  "  The  she-wolf  is  here  !"  he 
cried. 

His  glance  fell  upon  his  companion, 
standing  in  awe  and  pity  and  love  before 
him.  Instantly  a  fearful  malignity  hard 
ened  his  face,  and  his  eyes  blazed  with 
the  murder  that  had  filled  them  once 
before.  He  clutched  the  stick  more 
fiercely,  and  glared  at  her  with  a  mixture 
of  terror  and  ferocity.  But  she  stood 
firm,  and  gently  said, — 

"  My  friend  !" 
14  209 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

His  face  instantly  softened.  She  stood 
smiling,  her  glance  caressing,  her  whole 
bearing  bespeaking  sympathy  and  affec 
tion. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
whose  sweetness  sank  deep  within  him, 
"  you  know  me  !" 

A  look  of  joyous  recognition  swept 
over  his  face. 

"  I  am  so  glad  !"  he  breathlessly  said. 
"  I  thought  you  had  left  me  alone  !" 

Saying  this,  he  sank  to  the  ground, 
smiling  upon  her  as  he  fell. 

She  knelt  beside  him,  placed  a  sooth 
ing  hand  upon  his  cheek,  and  spoke 
comforting  words.  His  face  showed  the 
profound  gratification  that  filled  him, 
and  her  soul  spread  its  wings  in  the 
sunshine  that  filled  the  day  with  its 
glories. 

He    lay   limp   and   helpless,  but  she 


210 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

knew  that  he  must  be  going  forward  if 
he  could.  She  caressed  him,  she  coaxed 
him,  she  raised  him  to  a  sitting  posture, 
she  put  her  arms  under  his  and  lifted  him 
to  his  feet ;  but  his  breathing  was  short 
and  distressed,  his  head  rolled  listlessly, 
and  his  legs  refused  their  offices.  Then 
she  realized  that  the  last  remnant  of  his 
strength,  both  of  body  and  spirit,  was 
gone ;  and  her  heart  sank  to  the  utter 
most  depths. 

"  Lay  me  down,"  he  said,  very  gently, 
but  clearly,  and  with  perfect  resignation. 
"  Lay  me  down,  my  friend,  and  go  on 
alone.  I  am  very  tired,  and  must  sleep. 
Keep  to  the  road.  I  don't  think  it  is 
far  to  the  nearest  house.  You  are  sure 
to  find  some  one.  Be  brave  and  keep 
on." 

She  laid  him  down  and  turned  away. 
A  cruel  choking  had  throttled  her  power 


211 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

of  speech.  With  tears  so  streaming 
from  her  eyes  that  she  went  about  her 
purpose  half  blind,  she  found  a  drier 
place  in  the  road,  gathered  pine-needles 
less  soaked  than  the  rest,  made  a  bed 
for  him  there,  and  spread  upon  it  the 
blankets  that  he  had  been  carrying. 
When  she  looked  again  into  his  face  he 
was  sleeping  lightly,  and  his  breathing 
betrayed  great  physical  distress.  As 
gently  as  a  mother  lifting  her  sleeping 
babe,  she  took  him  up  in  her  arms,  bore 
him  to  the  bed,  and  with  infinite  care 
and  tenderness  laid  him  upon  it.  Then 
with  some  twigs  and  handkerchiefs  she 
fashioned  a  canopy  that  shielded  his  head 
from  the  sun.  She  covered  him  with  a 
free  part  of  the  blanket ;  but  fearing  that 
it  would  prove  insufficient,  she  removed 
her  outer  skirt  and  covered  him  with 
that ;  these  covers  she  tucked  about  him, 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

that  he  might  not  easily  throw  them 
off. 

He  had  not  been  roused  by  these  at 
tentions.  She  knelt  beside  him  and 
gently  kissed  his  hands,  his  cheeks,  his 
forehead,  his  lips,  and  wiped  away  her 
streaming  tears  as  they  fell  upon  his  face. 
He  moved  slightly,  opened  his  eyes, 
looked  into  her  face,  and  smiled.  Very 
feebly  he  took  her  hand,  brought  it  to 
his  lips,  kissed  it,  smiled  again,  closed 
his  eyes,  and  with  a  sigh  of  weariness 
fell  asleep.  She  knelt  thus  and  watched 
him  for  a  little  while,  seeing  him  sink 
deeper  and  deeper  into  slumber.  Then 
she  rose.  And  now  may  the  great  God 
give  heart  and  strength  for  the  mighty 
task  ahead  ! 

Not  trusting  herself  to  look  back 
upon  him,  she  gathered  up  her  courage 
and  started.  On  she  went,  her  head 
213 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

high,  her  eyes  aflame,  her  cheeks  aglow. 
A  suffocating,  heart-aching  loneliness 
haunted  her,  dogged  her,  gnawed  at  her 
spirit.  More  than  once  she  wavered, 
weak  and  trembling,  under  the  backward 
strain  upon  her  heart-strings.  More  than 
once  she  cried  aloud,  "  I  can't  leave  him  ! 
I  can't  leave  him  !  I  must  go  back !" 
And  then  she  would  summon  all  her 
strength  again,  and  cry,  "It  is  for  his 
sake  that  I  go  !  It  is  to  save  him  that  I 
leave  him !" 

Thus,  rended  by  contending  agonies, 
she  went  on  and  on.  With  incredible 
self-torturings  she  pictured  the  dangers 
to  which  she  had  left  him  exposed. 
What  had  he  meant  by  the  wolves? 
Was  there  really  danger  from  that 
source?  Often  in  his  sleep  in  the  hut, 
and  again  when  his  mind  would  wander, 

he  had  spoken  of  the  wolves,  and  always 
214 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

in  terror ;  but  most  dreadful  of  all  things 
to  him  was  the  she-wolf.  Yet  during 
all  the  time  that  she  had  been  imprisoned 
with  him  in  the  hut  there  had  not  been 
the  least  sign  of  a  wolf,  not  the  most 
distant  howl  of  one.  Why  had  this 
hallucination  been  so  persistent  with 
him,  so  terrifying  to  him  ? 

The  miles  seemed  interminable.  She 
kept  her  eyes  and  ears  strained  for  signs 
and  sounds  of  human  life.  At  inter 
vals  she  would  call  aloud  with  all  her 
might,  and  after  hearing  the  echo  of  her 
voice  die  away  in  the  canon,  wait  breath 
lessly  for  a  response  that  never  came. 
With  eager  haste  she  pushed  on.  Clam 
bering  over  fallen  trees,  heading  gullies 
that  she  could  not  leap,  wading  swift 
rivulets  with  which  the  rapidly  melting 
snow  was  still  ploughing  the  road,  she 
came  at  length  within  view  of  some 
215 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

men  who  were  clearing  the  road  with 
axes  and  mending  it  with  shovels, — the 
rough,  strong,  silent,  capable  men  of  the 
mountains.  She  frantically  waved  her 
handkerchief  and  called  as  she  went. 
They  stopped  their  work  and  stood  gaz 
ing  at  her  in  wondering  silence.  They 
saw  that  she  was  not  of  their  kind ;  but 
their  trained  sensibilities  informed  them 
that  the  great  mountains  had  been  work 
ing  their  terrible  will  upon  human  help 
lessness,  and  they  stood  ready  to  put  the 
strength  of  their  arms  and  hearts  into 
the  human  struggle. 

Imperfectly  clad  as  she  was,  her  form 
and  bearing  suggesting  a  princess,  her 
beauty,  enhanced  by  her  joy  at  finding 
help,  radiant  and  dazzling,  their  wonder 
and  shyness  held  them  stolid  and  out 
wardly  unresponsive,  and  they  silently 

waited   for   her   to    speak.      She    went 
216 


A  MAN:   HIS   MARK 

straight  to  them,  and,  looking  at  them  one 
after  another  as  she  spoke,  she  said, — 

"  Will  you  help  me,  men  *?  I  left  a 
man  exhausted  in  the  road  some  miles 
down  the  canon.  I  fear  he  is  dying. 
Will  you  go  with  me  and  help  me  bring 
him  up?  Is  there  a  doctor  anywhere 
near*?  Is  there  a  house  to  which  we 
may  take  him  ?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence, — 
these  men  are  slow,  but  all  the  surer  for 
that. 

One  of  them,  a  bearded,  commanding 
man  of  middle  age,  said, — 

"  Yes,  we  will  go  and  bring  him  up. 
A  doctor  lives  up  the  canon.  Maybe 
he's  at  home.  The  man  can't  walk  ?" 

"  No  ;  he  is  lying  helpless  in  the  road." 

The  strong  man,  whom  she  afterward 
heard  the  others  call  Samson, — one  of 
those  singular  coincidences  of  name  and 
217 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

character, — turned  and  picked  out  two 
men. 

"  You  two,"  he  said,  as  quietly  as 
though  he  were  directing  the  road-work, 
"  cut  two  poles  and  make  a  litter  with 
them  and  a  blanket.  Go  and  bring  the 
man  up.  You,"  he  said  to  a  third, 
"  help  them  make  the  litter,  and  give  a 
hand  on  the  trip."  Two  others  he  di 
rected  to  prepare  the  wagon,  which  stood 
a  short  distance  up  the  road.  Another 
he  sent  up  the  road  to  summon  the  doc 
tor.  Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
young  woman.  Without  consulting  her, 
he  made  a  comfortable  nest  of  great 
coats  and  blankets,  and  when  he  had  so 
deftly  and  quickly  finished  it,  he  said  to 
her, — 

"  Come  and  rest  here." 

"  No  !"  she  vehemently  protested  ;  "  I 

am  going  back  with  the  men." 
218 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

44  You  are  not  going  back  with  the 
men.  If  you  did,  there  would  be  two 
for  them  to  bring  up  instead  of  one. 
One  is  enough.  Make  yourself  com 
fortable  here  ;  you  are  safe." 

The  slight  rebuke  in  this,  and  the 
quiet  determination  with  which  the  man 
spoke,  informed  her  that  she  must  lay  a 
reasoning  hand  upon  her  agonizing  fear 
and  impatience.  She  obeyed  him  with 
as  good  a  grace  as  she  could  find. 

Again  without  consulting  her,  he 
brought  some  hot  coffee,  poured  it  into 
a  tin-cup,  and  held  it  out  to  her. 

"  Drink  that,"  he  said. 

She  drank  it.  He  then  produced  some 
bread,  which  he  sliced  and  buttered. 

44  Eat  that,"  he  said. 

She  obeyed.  While  doing  so  she 
watched  the  men  make  the  litter,  and 

marvelled  at  the  skill  with  which  they 
219 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

worked,  and  the  quickness  with  which 
the  task  was  done,  seemingly  without 
the  slightest  effort  or  hurry.  Then  in 
silence  the  three  men  swung  down  the 
road. 

The  man  named  Samson,  although  he 
had  not  appeared  to  be  giving  any  atten 
tion  to  his  fair  guest,  was  in  front  of  her 
the  moment  she  had  finished  the  bread 
and  butter.  He  carried  some  things  in 
his  arms,  and  threw  them  down  at  her 
feet. 

"  Take  off  your  shoes  and  stockings," 
he  said,  "  and  put  on  these  socks ;  they 
are  thick  and  warm.  Take  off  all  your 
other  things  that  are  wet,  and  wrap  your 
self  up  in  these  blankets.  By  the  time 
the  litter  comes  your  things  will  be  dry 
in  the  sun." 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 
'  I  VHE  three  remaining  men  turned  to 
their  work  of  clearing  the  road, 
headed  by  Samson.  He  had  not  asked 
her  any  questions  ;  he  did  not  even  look 
again  her  way  ;  but  presently  he  brought 
her  clothes,  which  he  had  spread  and 
dried  in  the  sunshine,  and  told  her  that 
by  the  time  she  was  dressed  the  litter 
would  be  there.  This  she  found  to  be 
so. 

Coming  down  the  road,  on  a  power 
ful  horse,  she  saw  a  bearded,  ruddy-faced, 
stocky,  middle-aged  man,  whose  business 
she  easily  guessed  from  the  country-doc 
tor's  saddle-bags  slung  across  his  horse. 
The  doctor  rode  up  and  greeted, — 
"  Hello,  Samson  !     Man  hurt  T 
"  Don't  know,"  answered  the  foreman. 

221 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

Then,  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  toward 
his  guest,  he  added,  "  She  can  tell  you." 

The  doctor  had  not  seen  her.  He 
looked  around,  gazed  at  her  a  moment 
in  astonishment,  and  then,  with  a  fine 
courtesy  singularly  different  from  the 
hearty  roughness  with  which  he  had 
greeted  the  man,  he  raised  his  hat. 

This  diversion  had  kept  the  attention 
of  the  two  from  the  quiet  arrival  of  the 
men  with  the  litter.  When  the  young 
woman  saw  it,  she  forgot  the  presence  of 
all  save  him  lying  so  quiet  where  the 
men  had  placed  him  on  a  bed  made  by 
Samson  from  coats.  She  ran  and  knelt 
beside  him ;  she  kissed  his  cheeks ;  she 
chafed  his  hands  ;  she  begged  him  to 
speak,  to  live  for  her  sake. 

The  strong  hand  of  the  doctor  lifted 
her  from  the  unconscious  man  and 
gently  put  her  aside.  A  moment's  as- 


222 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

tonished  gaze  into  the  pallid,  upturned 
face  brought  this  burst  from  the  doc 
tor— 

"  Adrian  Wilder — dying  !"  He  turned 
anxiously  upon  the  young  woman,  and 
demanded,  "  Where  did  you  find  him  ? 
What  is  the  matter  here*?" 

"  You  mistake,"  she  firmly  said.  "  He 
is  Dr.  Malbone." 

"  Dr. Malbone  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Why, 
I  am  Dr.  Malbone.  This  man  is  my 
friend,  Adrian  Wilder !" 

His  look  was  half  fierce  and  full  of 
suspicion. 

Too  surprised  to  comprehend  at  once 
the  full  meaning  of  his  declaration,  she 
stood  staring  at  the  physician  in  silence. 
That  gentleman,  turning  from  her, 
dropped  on  his  knees  and  made  a  hur 
ried  examination  of  the  unconscious 

man.     "  I  don't  understand  this,"  he  said 
223 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

to  himself.  He  quickly  opened  Wil- 
der's  shirt.  Upon  seeing  the  emaciation 
there,  and  exclaiming  in  amazement  and 
horror,  he  turned  again  upon  the  young 
woman  as  he  knelt,  and  demanded, — 

"  Explain  this  to  me.  Be  quick,  for 
every  moment  is  precious.  I  don't  want 
to  make  a  mistake,  and  I  must  know. 
He  has  pneumonia ;  but  there  is  some 
thing  behind  it.  Where  and  when  did 
you  find  him  *?" 

In  a  few  words  she  told  the  salient 
facts  of  the  story  as  she  believed  it, — 
the  running  away  of  the  horses,  the 
breaking  of  her  leg,  her  father's  departure 
to  fetch  relief,  her  care  at  the  stone  hut. 

"  When  did  this  accident  happen  to 
you  *?"  the  doctor  asked. 

"  Four  months  ago." 

"  And  you  two  have  lived  alone  at 

his  cabin?" 

224 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  Yes." 

He  glanced  her  over,  and  looked  more 
puzzled  than  ever. 

"  You  are  looking  hearty,"  he  said ; 
"  how  is  it  that  my  friend  is  in  this  con 
dition  T 

"  It  must  have  been  his  care  of  me 
and  his  worry  on  my  account." 

This  appeared  half  to  satisfy  Dr.  Mai- 
bone. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  not  being  a  doctor, 
and  being  extremely  susceptible  to  the 
pressure  of  his  duty  toward  you,  he  may 
have  worn  himself  out." 

With  that  he  hastily  gave  the  young 
man  a  stimulant,  and  said, — 

"  Fall  to  here,  men,  and  help  me  re 
vive  him,  else  he  will  be  dead  before  we 
know  it.  Chafe  his  wrists  and  ankles. 
Hurry,  men,  but  be  gentle.  That  is 
good.  Slow,  there,  John ;  those  homy 
xs  225 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

hands  of  yours  are  strong  and  rough. 
Samson,  bring  some  strong  coffee  as 
quickly  as  God  will  let  you.  Rub  him 
under  the  blankets,  men  ;  don't  let  him 
chill.  Maybe  we  can  get  him  out  of 
this  pinch.  The  great  thing  now  is  to 
take  him  to  my  house.  .  .  .  Ah,  that  is 
good  work,  lads  !  His  heart  is  waking 
up  a  little.  That  is  good.  That  is 
very  good." 

Dr.  Malbone  straightened  up,  and 
turned  to  the  young  woman,  again 
fastening  upon  her  the  strange,  severe, 
suspicious,  half- threatening  look  that  she 
had  already  learned  to  dread. 

"  I  fear  there  is  something  unexplained 
here,  madam,  something  concealed.  I 
am  not  accusing  you.  My  friend  is  a 
strange,  fine  man,  and  for  good  reasons 
he  may  have  withheld  something  from 

you.     But   he    would    never  hide  any- 

226 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

thing  from  me.  Did  he  give  you  a 
letter  for  any  one  ?" 

"  He  did  not." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  writing*?" 

"  No." 

"  Martin,  hand  me  his  coat." 

Dr.  Malbone  searched  the  pockets, 
and  found  a  sealed  letter  addressed  to 
him.  He  tore  it  open  and  read.  As 
he  read  his  astonishment  grew.  When 
he  had  finished,  he  turned  a  strange, 
pitying  look  upon  the  young  woman. 

"  He  charges  me  to  give  you  this 
when  I  shall  have  read  it." 

He  handed  her  the  letter,  which  she 
read.  It  ran  thus  : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — This  is  written 
to  give  Miss  Andros  some  unhappy  in 
formation  that  she  ought  to  have  at  the 

earliest  safe  and  proper  moment,  and  as 
227 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

a  precaution  against  my  breaking  down 
before  that  moment  arrives.  To  have 
told  her  at  first  might  have  prevented 
her  recovery.  The  proper  moment  to 
tell  her  will  have  arrived  when  she  is  in 
safe  hands.  I  trust  that  they  may  be 
yours,  and  I  know  that  you  will  show 
her  every  kindness  that  your  generous 
soul  can  yield. 

"  It  is  this  :  Her  father  lost  his  life  in 
the  accident  on  the  grade,  by  the  falling 
of  a  tree  upon  him.  His  body  rests 
under  the  earth  in  the  farther  end  of  the 
cave  into  which  the  rear  door  of  my 
cabin  opens.  The  grave  is  marked  with 
a  board  giving  his  name.  Nailed  up  in 
a  box  near  the  door  are  his  personal 
effects. 

"  Give  this  letter  to  my  afflicted  friend. 
It  will  convey  no  hint  of  the  profound 

sympathy  that  I  feel,  nor  of  what  I  suf- 
228 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

fer  in  thus  raising  my  hand  to  deal  her 
so  cruel  a  blow. 

"  I  can  only  crave  her  forgiveness  for 
deceiving  her  both  as  to  her  father's 
death  and  my  being  a  physician." 

The  eager  hope,  the  anxiety,  the  ab 
sorption  of  her  entire  self  in  the  stricken 
man  at  her  feet,  fled  before  the  crushing 
whirlwind  of  grief  that  now  overwhelmed 
her.  The  loss  of  her  father  was  the  loss 
of  the  anchor  of  her  life,  the  loss  of  the 
one  sure  thing  upon  which  her  soul 
rested,  in  which  she  knew  peace,  security, 
sympathy,  and  strength.  She  spoke  no 
word,  but  gazed  far  down  the  canon,  a 
picture  of  complete  desolation.  Dr. 
Malbone  stood  beside  her,  looking  down 
thoughtfully  into  the  face  of  his  friend. 
The  men,  relieved  from  their  work  of 

bringing  back  a  faint  glow  of  the  flicker- 
229 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

ing  life  on  the  ground,  moved  away 
silently,  with  the  instinctive  delicacy  of 
their  kind,  knowing  that  they  were 
facing  a  tragedy  that  they  did  not 
understand. 

The  letter  fell  from  the  young  wo 
man's  hand  as  she  still  gazed  in  mute 
agony  down  the  canon.  A  slight  sway 
ing  of  her  form  warned  Dr.  Malbone 
that  his  time  for  action  had  arrived. 

"  A  noble  life  still  is  left  to  us,"  he 
quietly  said,  without  looking  up,  and 
with  a  certain  unsteadiness  in  his  voice ; 
"  and  it  appeals  to  us  for  all  that  we 
have  to  give  of  help  and  strength  and 
sympathy." 

It  was  a  timely  word.  Instantly  she 
dragged  herself  out  of  the  crushing  tu 
mult  into  which  she  had  been  plunged. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  radiant  with  love  and 

towering  above  the  wreck  that  encom- 
230 


A  MAN:   HIS  MARK 

passed  her,  "  the  noblest  of  all  lives  is 
still  left  to  us,  and  it  shall  have  all  that 
lies  in  us  to  give." 

"  Then,"  said  Dr.  Malbone,  "  time  is 
very  precious.  Let  us  take  him  to  my 
home  at  once." 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  western 
mountains,  but  it  still  tipped  the  snowy 
summit  of  Mount  Shasta  with  a  crimson 
glow. 

"Put  the  horses  through,"  said  Dr. 
Malbone  to  the  man  who  drove. 

They  made  good  speed  up  the  grade, 
Dr.  Malbone  pondering  in  silence  some 
problem  that  still  sorely  troubled  him, 
the  young  woman  sitting  on  the  floor 
of  the  wagon  and  holding  the  hand  of 
the  unconscious  man.  Presently  they 
arrived  at  Dr.  Malbone's  house,  where 
his  plain,  homelike  wife,  a  competent 
mountain  woman,  quickly  had  the  patient 
231 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

comfortable  in  bed,  while  her  husband 
went  thoroughly  into  the  treatment.  His 
was  a  mercurial  spirit,  the  opposite  of 
the  gentle  soul  now  seemingly  passing 
away  under  his  hands. 

"  I  can  find  absolutely  nothing, "  he 
finally  exclaimed,  in  despair,  "except 
simple  inanition  as  the  probable  cause 
and  a  complication  of  this  attack,  and  I 
know  that  it  is  absurd.  You  must  help 
me,  madam.  Tell  me  how  you  lived." 

Numerous  sharp  questions  were  re 
quired  before  he  finally  came  upon  the 
trail  of  the  truth.  She  had  delayed 
saying  that  Wilder  had  not  eaten  with 
her,  and  that  toward  the  last  he  was  nig 
gardly  with  the  food,  because  she  feared 
that  it  would  sound  like  a  reproach. 
The  moment  she  mentioned  it,  Dr.  Mai- 
bone  was  transfigured.  He  sprang  back 

from   the   bedside  and  confronted  her, 
232 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

menacing  and  formidable,  as  Wilder  had 
confronted  her  on  that  terrible  day  when 
she  told  him  the  story  of  her  breaking 
up  the  attachment  between  a  musician 
and  her  friend,  and  the  death  of  the  girl 
from  a  broken  heart.  What  had  she 
done  or  said  that  should  bring  this  sec 
ond  storm  of  a  man's  fury  upon  her? 

"  And  you  no  doubt  think,"  cried  Dr. 
Malbone,  "  that  you  have  learned  from 
his  letter  the  true  reason  for  his  keeping 
you  out  of  the  cave.  In  all  this  broad 
world  is  there  any  human  being  so  be 
sotted  with  selfishness  as  not  to  be  able 
to  burrow  through  its  swinishness  for  the 
truth?  Come  and  look  at  this."  He 
dragged  her  to  the  bedside  and  showed 
her  the  body  of  his  patient.  "  Is  there 
under  heaven,"  he  continued,  "  a  mental 
or  a  spiritual  eye  so  blinded  with  brutal 
egotism,  so  drunk  with  self-interest,  as 
233 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

not  to  read  the  story  that  this  poor  with 
ered  frame  writes  large  ?  Do  you  not 
understand  that  in  those  acts — over  which 
you  no  doubt  whined  and  complained  in 
your  empty  heart — he  gave  evidence  of 
a  sublime  sacrifice  for  you  *?  Look  at 
your  own  abundant  flesh.  You  never 
went  hungry  in  the  hut.  You  never 
asked  yourself  if  he  might  have  food 
sufficient  for  two  during  the  long  win 
ter.  And  now  you  see  that  he  has  de 
nied  himself  for  your  comfort.  He  is 
dying  of  starvation,  because  in  his  splen 
did  unselfishness  he  wanted  you  to  be 
comfortable." 

Dr.  Malbone  paused,  bu*  his  eyes 
were  still  blazing  upon  her,  and  his  body 
trembled  with  the  passion  that  stirred 
him. 

"  One  affliction  has  fallen  upon  you  ; 
may  you  have  strength  and  grace  to  bear 
234 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

it ;  but  I  say  this :  If  ten  thousand 
such  afflictions  had  overtaken  you,  the 
suffering  from  them  would  not  be  ade 
quate " 

He  suddenly  checked  himself,  and 
gave  his  wife  hurried  instructions  for  the 
preparation  of  some  nutriment.  While 
this  was  preparing,  he  resorted  to  such 
vigorous  measures  as  the  urgency  of 
the  case  demanded,  All  this  quickly 
brought  him  under  self-control,  and  he 
worked  with  the  sure  hand  of  a  skilful 
man  battling  with  all  his  might  in  a  des 
perate  emergency.  The  young  woman 
had  sunk  into  a  chair,  where  she  sat 
dazed,  weak,  ill,  and  ignored,  not  daring 
to  offer  help,  and  praying  dumbly  for 
the  opening  of  a  vast  gulf  to  entomb 
her. 

The  patient  rallied  under  the  physi 
cian's  treatment.  Slowly,  but  with  pal- 
235 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

pable  effect,  Dr.  Malbone  dragged  him 
a  little  way  from  the  brink  of  death. 
The  doctor's  coat  was  off,  but  sweat 
streamed  down  his  face.  His  wife — silent, 
intelligent,  and  alert — gave  him  all  the 
help  that  he  required,  and  neither  of 
them  looked  toward  the  suffering  woman 
sitting  crushed  and  miserable  in  the 
chair.  Thus  the  time  passed  until  the 
intense  anxiety  in  the  physician's  face 
began  to  relax ;  and  at  last,  with  a  sigh, 
he  sank  wearily  into  a  chair,  remarking 
to  his  wife, — 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  do  for  the 
present.  He  is  rallying.  Give  him  time. 
The  chances  are  a  hundred  to  one  against 
him." 

He  rested  his  head  on  the  back  of  his 
chair  and  closed  his  eyes,  while  his  wife 
went  to  discharge  her  duties  in  another 

part  of  the  house.     Soon  he  raised  his 
236 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

head,  and  in  his  old  kindly  manner  said 
to  the  young  woman,— 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  way  in  which  I 
talked  just  now,  and  I  ask  you  to  for 
give  me.  You  will  understand  my  out 
burst  and  be  more  inclined  to  forgive  me 
when  I  tell  you  something  of  my  poor 
friend's  life ;  for  I  am  certain  that  he  has 
told  you  nothing.  Has  he  *?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  weakly  and 
humbly. 

"  He  has  suffered  so  cruel  a  wrong  in 
the  past  that  when  I  see  the  least  ap 
proach  to  imposition  upon  his  noble  un 
selfishness  it  maddens  me.  I  ought  not 
to  have  blamed  you.  You  were  not 
conscious  of  imposing  upon  him.  I  be 
lieve  that  he  is  dying.  If  so,  there  will 
be  no  harm  in  my  telling  you  his  story. 
If  he  lives,  I  can  trust  you  with  it. 

"  I  had  known  him  in  San  Francisco, 
237 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

but  I  came  to  these  mountains  long  be 
fore  him.  It  was  less  than  two  years 
ago  that  he  came  to  me,  and  you  can 
never  realize  the  shock  that  his  condition 
gave  me.  After  a  while  he  told  me  of 
his  trouble  as  he  understood  it.  It  was 
this  :  Through  giving  violin  lessons  to 
a  young  lady  of  wealth  and  of  great 
loveliness  of  character,  he  became  deeply 
attached  to  her,  and  in  return  she  gave 
him  her  whole  affection.  She  was  will 
ing  and  anxious  to  marry  him,  even 
though  she  knew  that  her  parents  and 
friends  would  disown  her  if  she  did. 
He  hesitated,  from  pure  unselfishness,  to 
bring  upon  her  any  distress  that  their 
marriage  might  cause.  The  poor  fool 
could  not  understand  that  she  would 
have  gladly  given  up  everything  in  life 
for  him.  He  was  called  away  to  fill  a 
lucrative  engagement,  and  in  his  absence 
238 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

her  heart  changed  toward  him.  Soon 
afterward  she  died.  When  he  came  to 
me  he  was  broken  in  spirit  and  body, 
and  it  was  my  privilege  to  start  him 
aright  in  a  chastened  and  nobler  life. 
He  and  I  built  the  cabin,  and  there  he 
was  to  pass  the  winter  in  unremitting 
study  and  self-mastery. 

"That  was  the  story  as  he  told  it  to 
me  and  as  he  believed  it  to  be.  But  I 
saw  that  something  was  behind  it  that  in 
his  sweetness  and  generosity  he  had  never 
suspected.  I  myself  learned  the  truth. 
By  means  of  a  few  inquiries  made  by 
letter  to  a  friend  in  San  Francisco,  I 
found  that  an  old  school-friend  of  the 
girl  had  made  the  trouble.  It  was  a 
case  of  malicious  revenge.  The  girl 
whom  my  friend  loved  had  innocently 
and  unconsciously  received  the  love  of 
a  man  for  whom  she  cared  nothing,  as 
239 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

her  whole  affection  was  with  my  friend. 
This  man  was  very  rich,  and  for  that  and 
other  reasons  was  regarded  as  a  prize. 
It  appears  that  before  losing  his  heart  to 
this  loveliest  of  girls  he  had  been  de 
voted  to  her  old  school-friend,  a  beautiful 
and  dashing  belle,  who  expected  to  marry 
him.  When  she  found  that  she  had  lost 
him,  she  planned  revenge.  She  was  ut 
terly  without  heart  or  principle.  So  she 
traded  on  her  old  school-mate's  confidence 
in  her,  and  used  that  friendship  to  sepa 
rate  the  lovers  with  lies  and  cunning. 
She  succeeded.  The  girl  died  of  a 
broken  heart,  and  my  friend's  life  was 
ruined." 

A  look  of  unutterable  horror  settled 
upon  the  young  woman's  face,  and  she 
sat  upright  and  rigid,  staring  helplessly 
at  him. 

"  I  never  told  him  what  I  had  learned," 
240 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

resumed  the  physician.  "  It  might  have 
broken  his  heart,  and  he  had  suffered 
enough.  I  did  not  want  him  to  know 
that  malice,  revenge,  and  murder  had 
played  their  part  in  his  story." 

The  young  woman's  face  bore  so  sin 
gular  an  expression  that  the  physician 
marvelled.  She  was  white,  and  deep  and 
unaccustomed  lines  marred  her  beauty. 

"  He  knows  the  whole  truth,"  she 
said,  quietly,  and  with  a  strange  hard 
ness.  "  He  knows  that  I  am  the  woman 
who  brought  about  their  separation.  He 
learned  it  from  me  long  ago  in  his  cabin." 

What  Dr.  Malbone  might  have  done 
under  the  spur  of  the  horror  and  amaze 
ment  that  filled  him  was  checked  by  a 
violent  fit  of  coughing  with  which  his 
patient  had  been  seized.  His  physician's 
training  instantly  sent  him  to  the  bed 
side. 

16  241 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  Help  me  here !"  he  cried,  as  he 
raised  the  sufferer. 

The  young  woman  staggered  to  the 
bed.  Dr.  Malbone  shot  a  malevolent 
glance  at  her,  but  she  did  not  heed  it. 
He  raised  his  hand  to  thrust  her  back, 
but  she  grasped  it,  and  quietly  and  firmly 
said, — 

"  I  am  going  to  help  you." 

He  yielded,  and  told  her  what  to  do, 
and  she  did  it. 

The  cough  was  checked,  and  the  suf 
ferer  was  laid  back  upon  the  pillow.  His 
eyes  were  open,  and  he  looked  from  one 
of  the  watchers  to  the  other  as  they 
stood  on  opposite  sides  of  the  bed.  At 
first  he  was  puzzled,  and  then  a  bright 
look  of  recognition  lighted  up  his  face. 
He  smiled  as  he  extended  a  feeble  hand 
to  each. 

"  You  are  safe,"  he  faintly  said  to  the 
242 


:     A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

young  woman.  "  I  am  glad.  Dr.  Mai- 
bone  will  be  kind  to  you."  To  the  phy 
sician  he  said,  his  voice  tremulous  with 
affection,  "  My  dear  old  friend,  always 
true,  always  kind." 

He  wanted  to  say  more,  but  Dr.  Mai- 
bone  checked  him  and  gave  him  some 
thing  to  strengthen  him.  He  took  it, 
shaking  his  head  and  smiling  sadly. 
Presently,  as  his  eyes  grew  brighter,  Dr. 
Malbone  said, — 

"  You  may  speak  now,  Adrian,  if  you 
wish." 

The  young  woman  had  knelt,  and, 
taking  the  sufferer's  hand  in  both  of  hers, 
bowed  her  head  over  it  as  she  pressed  it 
to  her  lips. 

"  Look  at  me,"  he  said  to  her. 

She  raised  her  head,  and  they  looked 
long  and  silently  at  each   other.      He 
seemed  troubled  and  anxious. 
243 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

"  My  poor  friend,"  he  said,  "  you 
have  not  yet  learned.  Dr.  Malbone — a 
letter — my  pocket." 

"I  have  read  the  letter,  my  friend," 
she  hastened  to  say.  "  I  know  all  about 
my  father,  and  I  know  how  thought 
ful  and  kind  you  were  not  to  tell 
me." 

"  Then  you  forgive  me  ?"  he  begged. 

"  Forgive  you,  my  friend  *?  Yes,  a 
thousand  times;  but  how  can  you  for 
give " 

She  buried  her  face  in  his  pillow ;  her 
arm  stole  round  him,  and  she  drew  him 
against  her  breast. 

"  I  did  that  long  ago,"  he  replied. 

"  My  noble,  generous  friend !"  she 
said.  "  But  can  you  understand  what 
you  have  been  to  me,  what  you  have 
done  for  me,  what  you  are  to  me  ?  Can 

you  believe  that  you  have  made  a  true 
244 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

woman  of  me  ?    Am  I  still  the  she-wolf, 
my  friend  ?" 

A  supreme  agony  moved  her  in  this 
appeal.  He  feebly  tried  to  check  her 
with  his  hand,  but  she  nestled  her  cheek 
close  against  his  and  pleaded, — 

"Do  you  understand  that  you  have 
made  me  worthy  of  every  kind  regard  that 
so  noble  a  man  could  have  for  a  woman  *? 
Can  you  believe,  friend  of  my  life,  that 
you  have  made  me  such  a  woman  as 
would  be  perfect  in  your  eyes?" 

He  made  no  reply,  and,  still  holding 
him  in  her  arms,  she  raised  her  head  to 
look  into  his  face.  He  was  regarding 
her  with  a  strange  and  distant  wistful- 
ness,  and  there  shone  in  his  eyes  a  pale, 
far  light  that  stretched  through  infinite 
space.  A  faint  smile  played  upon  his 
lips,  the  feeble  pressure  of  his  hand 
closed  upon  hers. 

245 


A   MAN:   HIS  MARK 

"  You  will  not  leave  me,  will  you  ?" 
she  pleaded.  "  You  will  come  back  to 
health,  my  friend.  You  will  teach  me, 
you  will  guide  me.  The  world  will  be 
bright  and  beautiful,  for  all  our  suffering 
has  been  borne.  We  belong  each  to 
the  other,  my  friend,  in  friendship,  trust, 
and  sympathy." 

Still  he  smiled  as  he  looked  into  her 
face ;  and  as  he  smiled,  and  she  saw 
the  strange,  far  light  that  shone  from 
so  inconceivable  a  distance  in  the  awful 
depths  of  his  eyes,  her  eager  heart  found 
a  bridge  of  glass  spanning  the  gulf  be 
tween  them.  Then  he  sighed  deeply, 
and  his  eyes  rolled  upward.  She  sprang 
from  the  bed  to  her  feet. 

"  Dr.  Malbone !"  she  cried,  in  a 
suppressed  voice,  "  quick !  he  has 
fainted !" 

The    physician,   who  had    stepped  a 
246 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

little  way  apart,  came  forward  and  looked 
down  into  the  still  face  of  his  friend. 
Then  he  glanced  up  at  the  young 
woman,  who  was  trembling  with  eager 
impatience. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  do,"  sadly  re 
plied  Dr.  Malbone ;  then  he  passed 
round  the  bed,  took  the  young  woman 
gently  by  the  arm,  and,  in  a  kind  voice, 
said,  "  Come  with  me." 

She  went  with  him,  wondering,  and 
looking  over  her  shoulder  toward  the 
bed.  He  led  her  into  an  adjoining  room, 
closed  the  door,  and  placed  a  chair  for 
her. 

"  No,  Dr.  Malbone  !"  she  protested. 
44  How  can  I,  when  he  needs  us  both  so 
much  *?  Hurry  back  to  him ;  I  will 
stay  here  if  you  wish." 

"  No,"   replied   the    physician ;    "  my 

place  is  here." 

247 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

A  look  of  desperate  eagerness  settled 
in  her  face,  and  she  was  listening  in 
tently  for  a  sound  from  the  other  room. 
The  physician  regarded  her  pityingly,  as 
she  stood  trembling  in  an  agony  of 
impatience  and  apprehension.  Unable 
to  control  herself  longer,  she  seized  him 
by  the  arm,  and  cried, — 

"Dr.  Malbone,  you  know  best,  but  I 
can't  bear  to  leave  him  !  Do  you  know 
that  I  fear  he  will  die  ?  He  is  all  the 
world  to  me,  and  I  can't  bear  to  let  him 
go.  Do  you  understand  that  *?  I  want 
him  to  live.  I  want  to  show  him  what 
a  good  woman's  trust  and  love  can  be. 
I  want  to  give  my  whole  life  to  his  hap 
piness.  I  want  to  atone  for  all  the  evil 
and  suffering  that  I  have  brought  upon 
him.  I  want  him  to  know  that  he  has 
found  peace  and  a  refuge  at  last.  Dr. 

Malbone,  go  and  save  him  !" 
248 


A   MAN:   HIS   MARK 

Dr.  Malbone  took  her  hands  in  his, 
and  said, — 

"  Will  you  try  to  understand  what  I 
am  going  to  say  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  she  answered. 

"  Then  command  all  the  strength  of 
your  soul." 

"  Dr.  Malbone !"  she  gasped,  peering 
into  his  eyes,  her  face  blanching. 

With  pity  and  tenderness  the  physician 
said, — 

"  Our  friend  is  dead  ;  he  died  in  your 
arms." 


THE    END. 


249 


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